PS 

1712 
.G5 
1893 



JiLEs Corey; 

Yeoman 



BY 



Mary E.Wilkins 





LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




FATHER 1 FATHKK 



-^«>^-:^ 



GILES COREY, YEOMAN 



B plag 



MARY E.nVILKINS 

ILLUSTRATED 




NEW YORK 



HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS ^9^' J 
1893 

/ 



<C^K«/v^* ^ 



/Z--3ZS-/^ 



Harper's "Black and White" Series. ' 

Illustrated. 32mo, Cloth, 50 oents each. 

WHITTIER: NOTES OF HIS LIFE AND OF HIS | 

FRIENDSHIPS. By ANNIE FIELDS. | 

GILES COREY, YEOMAN. By MAKY E. WILKINS. 
COFFEE AND REPARTEE. By JOHN KendriCK BANGS. 
SEEN FROM THE SADDLE. By ISA CAKRINGTON 

Cabell. 
A FAMILY CANOE TRIP. By FLORENCE Watters 

Snedeker. 
A LITTLE SWISS SOJOURN. By WILLIAM DEAN 

HOWELLS. 

A LETTER OF INTRODUCTION. A Farce. By WILLIAM j 

Dean Howells. ! 

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. An Address. By GEORGE | 

WILLIAM Curtis. 

IN THE VESTIBULE LIMITED. By BRANDER Mat- ( 

THEWS. 

THE ALBANY DEPOT. A Farce. By WILLIAM DEAN j 

Howells. ■ 

PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK, j 

Fo7- sale by all booksellers, or -will be sent by the publishers, | 
postage prepaid, on receipt of price. 1 



Copyright, 1893, by Harper & Brothers. 
All rights reser'i'ed. 



N 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

"father! father!" .... Frontispiece 

"THIS IS NO COURTING NIGHT ". Faces p. 22 

"HEY, BLACK CAT ; HEY, MY 

PRETTY BLACK CAT". . . " 26 

"there is a flock of yel- 
low-birds around her 
head" " 46 



GILES COREY, YEOMAN. 



CAST OF CHARACTERS. 

Giles Corey. 

Paul Bayley, Olive Corey^s lover. 

Samuel Parris, inimster in Salem Village. 

John Hathorne, \ .magistrates. 

Jonathan Corwin, ) 

OuvE Corey, Giles Corey'' s daughter. 

Martha Corey, Giles Corey'' s wife. 

Ann Hutchins, Olive'' s friend and one of tJie Afflicted 

Girls. 
Widow Eunice Hutchins, Ami's mother. 
Phcebe Morse, little orphati girl., niece to Martha 

Corey. 
Mercy Lewis, one of the Afflicted Girls. 
Nancy Fox, an old serving-woman in Giles Corey^s 

house. 
Afflicted Girls, Coftstables, Marshal, People of Salem 
Village, Messengers, etc. 



ACT I. 

Scene I. — Salem Village. Living-room 
iti Giles Corey's house. Olive Corey is 
spinjiing. Nancy Fox, the old servant, 
sits in the fireplace paring apples. Lit- 
tle Phoebe Morse, on a stool beside her, 
is knitti?ig a stocking. 

Phcebe {starting). What is that? Oh, 
Olive, what is that ? 

Nancy. Yes, what is that ? Massy, 
what a clatter! 

Olive {spinfting). I heard naught. Be 
not so foolish, child. And you, Nancy, 
be of a surety old enough to know better. 

Nancy. I trow there was a clatter in 
the chimbly. There 'tis again ! Massy, 
what a screech ! 

Phoebe {running to Olive and clinging 
to her). Oh, Olive, what is it? what is 
it? Don't let it catch me. Oh, Olive ! 

Olive. I tell you 'twas haught. 



• Nancy. Them that won't hear be deafer 
than them that's born so. Massy, what a 
screech ! 

Phcebe. Oh, Olive, OHve ! Don't let 
'em catch me ! 

Olive. Nobody wants to catch you. Be 
quiet now, and I'll sing to you. Then 
you won't think you hear screeches. 

Nancy. We won't, hey .'' 

Olive. Be quiet ! This folly hath gone 
too far. [Si?tgs spimting song. 

SPINNING SONG. 

" I'll tell you a story ; a story of one, 
'Twas of a great prince whose name was King 

John. 
A great prince was he, and a man of great might 
In putting down wrong and in setting up right. 
To my down, down, down, derry down." 

Nancy. Massy, what screeches ! 

[Screa?ns violently. 

Phcebe. Oh, Nancy, 'twas you screeched 
then. 

Nancy. It wasn't me ; 'twas a witch 
in the chimbly. {Screams again?) There, 
hear that, will ye ? I tell ye 'twa'n't me. 
I 'ain't opened my mouth. 

Olive. Nancy, I will bear no more of 



this. If you be not quiet, I will tell my 
mother when she comes home. Now, 
Phoebe, sing the rest of the song with 
me, and think no more of such folly. 

l^Si'ftgs with Phoebe. 

"This king, being a mind to make himself merry, 
He sent for the Bishop of Canterbury. 
' Good-morning, Mr. Bishop,' the king did say. 
' Have you come here for to live or to die ?' 
To my down, down, down, derry down. 

" ' For if you can't answer to my questions three, 
Your head shall be taken from your body ; 
And if you can't answer unto them all right, 
Your head shall be taken from your body quite.' 
To my down, down, down, derry down." 

Nancy {wagging her head in time to the 
music). I know some words that go bet- 
ter with that tune. 

Phcebe. What are they } 

Nancy. Oh, I'm forbid to tell. 

Phoebe. Who forbade you to tell, 
Nancy } 

Najtcy. The one who forbade me to 
tell, forbade me to tell who told me. 

Olive. Don't gossip, or you won't get 
your stints done before mother comes 
home. 



Phcebe {sulkily). I won't finish my stint. 
Aunt Corey set me too long a stint. I 
won't. Oh, there she is now ! 

\^Kiiits busily. 

Enter Ann Hutchins. 

Olive {rising). Well done, Ann. I was 
but now wishing to see you. Sit you 
down and lay off your cloak. Why, 
how pale you look, Ann ! Are you 
sick? 

Ann. You know best. 

Olive. I } Why, what mean you, Ann? 

Attn. You know what I mean, in spite 
of your innocent looks. Oh, open your 
eyes wide at me, if you want to ! Per- 
haps you don't know what makes 
them bigger and bluer than they used 
to be. 

Olive. Ann ! 

Ann. Oh, I mean nothing. I am not 
sick. Something frightened me as I 
came through the wood. 

Olive. Frightened you ! Why, what 
was it ? 

Phcebe. Oh, what was it, Ann ? 

Ann. I know not ; something black 



that hustled quickly by me and raised 
a cold wind. 

Phcebe. Oh, oh ! 

Olive. 'Twas a cat or a dog, and your 
own fear raised the cold wind. Think 
no more of it, Ann. Wait a moment 
while I go to the north room. I have 
something to show you. 

\Exit Olive with a candle. 

PhcBbe. What said the black thing to 
you, Ann ? 

Ann. I know not. 

Naticy. Said it not : " Serve me ; serve 
me?" 

Ann. I know not. I was deaf with 
fear. 

Phoebe. Oh, Ann, did it have horns.? 

Arm. I tell you I know not. You pes- 
ter me, child. 

Phoebe. Did it have hoofs and a 
tail? 

An7i. Be quiet, I tell you, or I'll cuff 
your ears. 

Nancy. She needn't be so topping. It 
will be laying in wait for her when she 
goes home. I'll warrant it won't let her 
off so easy. 



Enter Olive, bring ing an embroidered 
muslin cape. She puts it gently over 
Ann's shoulders. 

Ann {throwing it off violent l)f). Oh ! 
oh ! Take it away ! take it away ! 

Olive. Why, Ann, what ails you ? 

A?tn. Take it away, I say ! What 
mean you by your cursed arts ? 

Olive. Why, Ann ! I have been sav- 
ing a long time to buy it for you. 'Tis 
like my last summer's cape that you 
fancied so much. I sent by father to 
Boston for it. 

A7tn. I need it not. 

Olive. I thought 'twould suit well with 
your green gown. 

Ami. 'Twill suit well enough with a 
green gown, but not with a sore heart. 

Nancy. I miss my guess but it '11 suit 
well enough with her heart too. I trow 
that's as green as her gown ; green's the 
jealous color. 

Olive. You be all unstrung by your 
walk hither through the wood, Ann. I'll 
fold the cape up nicely for you, and you 
can take it when you go home. And 



mind you wear it next Sabbath day, 
sweet. Now I must to my wheel again, 
or I shall not finish my stint by nine 
o'clock. 

A7i?i. Your looks show that you were 
up later than nine o'clock last night. 

P/icebe. Oh, Ann, did you see the light 
in the fore room ? 

Ann. That did I. I stood at my cham- 
ber and saw it shine through the wood. 

Nancy. You couldn't see so far with- 
out spectacles. 

Ann. It blinded me. I could get no 
sleep. 

N'ancy. You think your eyes are 
mighty sharp. Maybe your ears are 
too.'* Maybe you heard 'em kissing at 
the door when he went home ? 

Olive. Nancy, be quiet ! 

Nancy. You needn't color up and 
shake your head at me, Olive. They 
stood kissing there nigh an hour, and 
he with his arm round her waist, and 
she with hers round his neck. They'd 
kiss, then they'd eye each other and kiss 
again. I know I woke up and thought 
'twas Injuns, and I peeked out of my 



chamber window. Such doings ! You'd 
ought to have seen 'em, Ann. 

Phcebe. Oh, Nancy, why didn't you 
wake me up ? 

Olive. Nancy, I'll have no more of 
this. 

Nancy. That's what she ought to have 
said last night — hadn't she, Ann } But 
she didn't. Oh, I'll warrant she didn't ! 
I know you would, Ann. 

Olive. Nancy ! 

\^A Jioise is heard outside. 

Phcebe. Oh, what's that noise ? What 
is coming? 

Enter Giles Qor^y, pajiting. He fli7igs 
the door to violently and slips the bolt. 

Nancy. Massy ! what's after ye } 
Phoebe. Oh, Uncle Corey, what's the 
matter ? 

Giles. The matter is there be too many 
evil things abroad nowadays for a man 
to be out after nightfall. When things 
that can be hit by musket balls lay in 
wait, old Giles Corey is as brave as any 
man ; but when it comes to devilish 
black beasts and black men that musket 



balls bound back from — What! you 
here, Ann Hutchins? What be you out 
after dark for ? 

Ann. I came over to see Olive, Good- 
man Corey. 

Giles. You'd best stayed by your own 
hearth if you've got one. Young wom- 
en have no call to be out gadding after 
dark in these times. 

Phcebe. Oh, Uncle Corey, something 
did frighten Ann as she came through 
the wood. A black beast, with horns 
and a tail and eyes like balls of fire, 
jumped out of the bushes at her, and bade 
her sign the book in a dreadful voice, 

Giles. What ! Was't so, Ann ? 

Ann. I know not. There was somGr 
thing. 

Olive {laughing). 'Twas naught but 
Ann's own shadow that her fear gave a 
voice and a touch to. Say naught to 
frighten Ann, father; she is the most 
timorous maid in Salem Village now. 

Giles. There is some wisdom in fear 
nowadays. You make too light of it, 
lass. 

Olive {laughing). Nay, father, I'll turn 



to and hang up my own shadow in the 
chimbly-place for a witch, an you say so. 

Giles. This be no subject for jest. Said 
you the black beast spoke to you, Ann } 

Ami. I know not. Once I thought I 
heard Ohve calling. I know not what I 
heard. 

Giles. You'd best have stayed at home. 
Where is your mother, Olive .'' 

Olive. She has gone to Goodwife 
Bishop's with a basket of eggs. 

Giles. Gone three miles to Goodwife 
Bishop's this time of night? Is the 
woman gone out of her senses ? 

Olive. She is not afraid. 

Giles. I'll warrant she is not afraid. So 
much the worse for her. Mayhap she's 
gone riding on a broomstick herself. 
How is the cat ? 

Olive. She is better. 

Giles. She was taken strangely, if your 
mother did make light of it. And the 
ox, hath he fell down again ? 

Olive. Not that I have heard. 

Giles. The ox was taken strangely, if 
your mother did pooh at it. The ox was 
better when she went out of the vard. 



Phoebe. There's Aunt Corey now. Who 
is she talking to ? 

E)iter Martha Corey. 

PJiccbe. Who were you talking to, Aunt 
Corey ? 

Martha. Nobody, child. Good-even- 
ing, Ann. 

Phoebe. I heard you talking to some- 
body. Aunt Corey. 

Martha. Be quiet, child. I was talk- 
ing to nobody. You hear too much 
nowadays. {Takes off her cloak. 

Nancy. Mayhap she hears more than 
folk want her to. I heard a voice too, a 
gruff voice like a pig's. 

Giles. I thought I heard talking too. 
Who was it, Martha } 

Martha. I tell you 'twas no one. Are 
you all out of your wits 7 

[Gets some knitting-work out of a 
cupboard and seats herself. 

Phoebe. Weren't you afraid coming 
through the wood. Aunt Corey? 

Martha {laughing). Afraid? Why, 
no, child. Of what should I be afraid? 

Giles. I trow there's plenty to be afraid 



of. How did you get home so quick ? 
'Tis a good three miles to Goody Bish- 
op's. 

Alartha. I walked at a good speed. 

Giles. I thought perhaps you galloped 
a broomstick, 

Martha. Nay, goodman, I know not 
how to manage such a strange steed. 

Giles. I thought perhaps one had 
taught you, inasmuch as you have 
naught to say against the gentry that 
ride the broomstick of a night. 

Martha. Fill not the child's head with 
such folly. How fares your mother, Ann ? 

An7t. Well, Goodwife Corey. 

Giles. She lacks sense, or she would 
have kept her daughter at home. Out 
after nightfall, and the woods full of the 
devil knoweth what. 

Martha. Nay, goodman, there be no 
danger. The scouts are in the fields. 

Giles. I meant not Injuns. There be 
worse than Injuns. There be evil things 
and witches ! 

Martha {laughing). Witches I Good- 
man, you are a worse child than Phoebe 
here. 



Giles. I tell ye, wife, you talk like a 
fool, ranting thus against witches. I 
would you had been where I have been 
to-night, and heard the afflicted maids 
cry out in torment, being set upon by 
Sarah Good and Sarah Osborn. I would 
you had seen Mercy Lewis strangled al- 
most to death, and the others testifying 
'twas Sarah Good thus afflicting her. 
But I'll warrant you'd not have believed 
them. 

Martha {laiighmg). That I would not, 
goodman. I would have said that the 
maids should be sent home and soundly 
trounced, then put to bed, with a quart 
bowl of sage tea apiece. 

Giles. Talk so if you will. One of these 
days folk will say you be a witch your- 
self. You were ever hard -skulled, and 
could knock your head long against a 
truth without being pricked by it. Hold 
out if you can, when only this morning 
the ox and the cat were took so strange- 
ly here in our own household. 

Martha. Shame on you, goodman ! 
The ox and the cat themselves would 
laugh at you. The cat ate a rat, and it 



did not set well on her stomach, and the 
ox slipped in the mire in the yard. 

Nancy. 'Twas more than that. I know, 
I know. 

Giles. Laugh if you will, wife. Mayhap 
you know more about it than other folk. 
You never could abide the cat. I am 
going to bed, if I can first go to prayer. 
Last night the words went from me 
strangely! But you will laugh at that. 
{^Lights a candle. Exit. 

Phcsbe. Aunt Corey, may I eat an ap- 
ple.? 

Martha. Not to-night. 'Twill give 
you the nightmare. 

Phoebe. No, 'twill not. 

Martha. Be still ! 

There is a knock. Olive opens the door. 
Enter Paul Bayley. Ann starts up. 

Paul. Good-evening, goodwife. Good- 
evening, Olive. Good-evening, Ann. 'Tis 
a fine night out. 

Ann. I must be going; 'tis late. 

Olive. Nay, Ann, 'tis not late. Wait, 
and Paul will go home with you through 
the wood. 



Ann. I must be going. 
Paid {hesitatijigly). Then let me go 
with you, Mistress Ann ! I can well do 
my errand here later. 

A7in. Nay, I can wait whilst you do 
the errand, if you are speedy. I fear 
lest the delay would make you ill at 
ease. 

Martha (^quickly). There is no need, 
Paul. I will go with Ann. I want to 
borrow a hood pattern of Goodwife 
Nourse on the way. 

Paul. But will you not be afraid, 
goodwife } 

Martha. Afraid, and the moon at a 
good half, and only a short way to 
go? 

Paid. But you have to go through the 
wood. 

Martha. The wood ! A stretch as 
long as this room — six ash -trees, one 
butternut, and a birch sapling thrown in 
for a witch spectre. Say no more, Paul. 
Sit you down and keep Olive company. 
I will go, if only for the sake of showing 
these silly little hussies that there is no 
call for a gospel woman with prayer in 



her heart to be afraid of anything but 
the wrath of God. 

[Pitts a blanket over her head. 

Ann. I want no company at all, Good- 
wife Corey. 

Phcebe. Aunt Corey, let me go, too ; 
my stint is done. 

Martha. Nay, you must to bed, and 
Nancy too. Off with ye, and no words. 

Nancy. I'm none so old that I must 
needs be sent to bed like a babe, I'd 
have you know that. Goody Corey. 

\_Sets away apple pan ; exit, with 
^^.(xbQ foltozuing sulkily. 

Martha. Come, Ann. 

Ajtn. I want no company. I have 
more fear with company than I have 
alone. 

Martha. Along with you, child. 

Olive. Oh, Ann, you are forgetting 
your cape. Here, mother, you carry it 
for her. Good-night, sweetheart. 

An7i. I want no company, Goodwife 
Corey. 

[Martha takes her laughingly by 
the arm and leads her out. 

Paul. It is a fine night out. 



Olive. So I have heard. 

Paul. You make a jest of me, Mistress 
Olive. Know you not when a man is of 
a sudden left alone with a fair maid, he 
needs to try his speech like a player his 
fiddle, to see if it be in good tune for her 
ears ; and what better way than to sound 
over and over again the praise of the 
fine weather } What ailed Ann that she 
seemed so strangely, Olive ? 

Olive. I know not. I think she had 
been overwrought by coming alone 
through the woods. 

Paul. She seemed ill at ease. Why 
spin you so steadily, Olive ? 

Olive. I must finish my stint. 

Paul, Who set you a stint as if you 
were a child } 

Olive. Mine own conscience, to which 
I will ever be a child. 

Paul. Cease spinning, sweetheart. 

Olive. Nay. 

Paul. Come over here on the settle, 
there is something I would tell thee. 

Olive. Tell it, then. I can hear a dis- 
tance of three feet or so. 

Paul, I know thou canst, but come. 



Olive. Nay, I will not. This is no court- 
ing night. I cannot idle every night in 
the week. 

Paul. Thou wouldst make a new com- 
mandment. A maid shall spin flax every 
night in the week save the Sabbath, when 
she shall lay aside her work and be 
courted. There be young men here in 
Salem Village, though you may credit 
it not, Olive, who visit their maids twice 
every week, and have the fire in the fore 
room kindled. 

Olive. My mother thinks it not well 
that I should sit up oftener than once a 
week, nor do I ; but be not vexed by it, 
Paul. 

Paul. I love thee better for it, sweet- 
heart. 

Olive. My stint is done. 

Paul. Then come. {She obeys.) Now 
for the news. This morning I bought of 
Goodman Nourse his nine-acre lot for a 
homestead. What thinkest thou of that } 

Olive. It is a pleasant spot. 

Paul. 'Tis not far from here, and thou 
wilt be near thy mother. 

Olive. Was it not too costlv } 



Paul. I had saved enough to pay for 
it, and in another year's time, and I have 
the help of God in it, I shall have saved 
enough for our house. What thinkest 
thou of a gambrel-roof and a lean-to, 
two square front rooms, both fire-rooms, 
and a living-room ? And peonies and 
hollyhocks in the front yard, and two 
popple - trees, one on each side of the 
gate ? 

Olive. We shall need not a lean-to. 
Paul, and one fire-room will serve us 
well ; but I will have laylocks and red 
and white roses as well as peonies and 
hollyhocks in the front yard, and some 
mint under the windows to make the 
house smell sweet; and I like well the 
popple-trees at the gate. 

Paid. The house shall be built of fair- 
ly seasoned yellow pine wood, with a 
summer tree in every room, and fine 
panel-work in the doors and around the 
chimbleys. 

Olive. Nay, Paul, not too fine panel- 
work ; 'twill cost too high. 

Paul. Cupboards in every room, and 
fine-laid white floors. 



Olive. We need a cupboard in the liv- 
ing-room only, but I have learned to sand 
a floor in a rare pattern. 

[Paul atte7}ipts to embrace Olive. 
She repulses him. 

Paul. I trow you are full provident of 
favors and pence, Olive. 

Olive. I would save them for thee, 
Paul. 

Paul. And thou shalt not be hindered 
by me to any harm, sweetheart. Was't 
thy mother taught thee such wisdom, 
or thine own self, Olive ? 

Olive. 'Twas my mother. 

Paul. Nay, 'twas thine own heart ; that 
shall teach me, too. 

[Nine-o'clock bell rings. 

Olive. Oh, 'tis nine o'clock, and 'tis not 
a courting night. Paul, be off ; thou 
must ! 

yr hey jump up a7id go to the door. 

Paul {putting his arm around Olive). 
Give me but one kiss, Olive, albeit not a 
courting night, for good speed on my 
homeward walk and my to-morrow's 
journey. 

Olive. Where go you to-morrow, Paul ? 




THIS IS NO COURTING NIGHT 



Paul. To Boston, for a week's time or 
more. 

Olive. Oh, Paul, there may be Injuns 
on the Boston path ! Thou wilt be 
wary ? 

Paul {laughing). Have no fear for me, 
sweetheart. I shall have my musket. 

Olive. A week ? 

Paul. 'Tis a short time, but long 
enough to need sweetening with a kiss 
when folk are absent from one another. 

Olive {kisses him). Oh, be careful, 
Paul! 

Paul. Fear not for me, sweetheart, but 
do thou too be careful, for sometimes 
danger sneaks at home, when we flee it 
abroad. Keep away from this witchcraft 
folly. Good-by, sweetheart. 

\^They paj^t. Olive sets a candle i?i 
the windoiv after Paul's exit. 
Nine- o'clock bell still 7'ings as 
curtaiii falls. 



Scene II. — Twelve o'clock at night. Liv- 
ing-room at Giles Corey's house, lighted 
only by the mooji and low fire-light. En- 
ter Nancy Fox with a candle, Phoebe 
followi^ig with a large rag doll. Nancy 
sets the candle on the dresser. 

Nancy. Be ye sure that Goody Corey 
is asleep, and Goodman Corey ? 

Phcebe {dances across to the door, which 
she opens slightly, and listens'). They be 
both a-snoring. Hasten and begin, I 
pray you, Nancy. 

Nancy. And Olive ? 

Phcebe. She is asleep, and she is in the 
south chamber, and could not hear were 
she awake. Here is my doll. Now show 
me how to be a witch. Quick, Nancy ! 

Nancy. Whom do you desire to af- 
flict } 

Phoebe {cojisiders). Let me see. I will 
afflict Uncle Corey, because he brought 
me naught from Boston to-day ; Olive, 
because she gave that cape to Ann in- 
stead of me ; and Aunt Corey, because 
she set me such a long stint, because 
she would not let me eat an apple to- 



25 



night, and because she sent me to bed. 
I want to stick one pin into Uncle Corey, 
one into Olive, and three into Aunt 
Corey, 

Nancy. Take the doll, prick it as 
you will, and say who the pricks be 
for. [Phoebe sticks a pin into the doll. 

Phcebe. This pin be for Uncle Corey, 
and this pin be for Olive, and this pin 
for Aunt Corey, and this pin for Aunt 
Corey, and this pin for Aunt Corey. 
Pins ! pins ! ! pins ! ! ! (^Dances.) In 
truth, Nancy, 'tis rare sport being a 
witch ; but I stuck not in the pins very 
far, lest they be too sorely hurt. 

Nancy. Is there any other whom you 
desire to aflfiict } 

PhoBbe. I fear I know not any other 
who has angered me, and I could weep 
for 't. Stay! I'll afflict Ann, because she 
hath the cape ; and I'll afflict Paul Bay- 
ley, because I'm drove forth from the 
fore room Sabbath nights when he 
comes a-courting; and I'll afflict Minis- 
ter Parris, because he put me too hard 
a question from the catechism ; that 
makes three more. Oh, 'tis rare sport! 



{Seizes the doll and sticks in three pins?) 
This pin be for Ann, this pin be for 
Paul, and this pin be for Minister Par- 
ris. Deary me, I can think of no more ! 
What next, Nancy ? 

Nancy. I'll do some witchcraft now. 
I desire to afflict your aunt Corey, be- 
cause she doth drive me hither and 
thither like a child, and sets no value 
on my understanding ; Olive, because 
she made a jest of me ; and Goody 
Bishop, because she hath a fine silk 
hood. 

Phoebe. Here is the doll, Nancy. 

Nancy. Nay, I have another way, 
which you be too young to under- 
stand. 

[Nancy takes the ca7idle, goes to 
the fireplace, and courtesies three 
times, looking up the chinniey. 

Nancy. Hey, black cat ! hey, my pret- 
ty black cat ! Go ye and sit on Goody 
Corey's breast, and claw her if she stirs. 
Do as I bid ye, my pretty black cat, and 
I'll sign the book. 

Phoebe. Oh, Nancy, I hear the black 
cat yawl ! 



Na7icy {after court esying three times). 
Hey, black dog ! hey, my pretty black 
dog ! Go ye and howl in Mistress Olive's 
ear, so she be frighted in her dreams, 
and so get a little bitter with the sweet. 
Do as I bid ye, my pretty black dog, and 
I'll sign the book. 

Phcebe. Oh, Nancy, I hear the black 
dog howl ! 

Nancy {after court esying three tzjnes). 
Hey, yellow bird ! hey, my pretty yellow 
bird ! Go ye and peck at Goody Bish- 
op's fine silk hood and tear it to bits. 
Do as I bid ye, my pretty yellow bird, 
and I'll sign the book. 

Phcebe. Oh, Nancy, I hear the yellow 
bird twitter up chimbly ! 

Nancy. 'Tis rare witchcraft. 

Phcebe. Is that all, Nancy ? 

Nancy. All of this sort. I've given 
them all they can do to-night. 

Phcebe. Then sing the witch song, 
Nancy. 

Nancy. I'll sing the witch song, and 
you can dance on the table. 

Phoebe. But 'tis sinful to dance, 
Nancy ! 



28 



Nancy. 'Tis not sinful for a witch. 
P/icebe. True ; I forgot I was a witch. 

\_Geis tip07i the table and dances, 
dangling her doll, while Nancy 
sings. 

WITCH SONG. 

(Same air as Spinning Song.) 

' I'll tell you a story, a story of one ; 
'Twas of a dark witch, and the wizard her son. 
A dark witch was she, and a dark wizard he, 
With yellow birds singing so gay and so free. 
To my down, down, down, derrj' down. 

'The clock was a-striking, a-striking of one. 
The witches came out, and the dancing begun. 
They courtesied so fine, and they drank the red wine— 
The wizards were three and the witches were nine. 
To my down, down, down, derry down. 

' Halloo, the gay dancers ! Halloo, I was one ; 
The goody that prayed and the maiden that spun ! 
The yellow birds chirped in the boughs overhead. 
And fast through the bushes the black dog sped. 
To my down, down, down, derry down." 

\A 7ioise is heard. Phcebe. j2Wij!>s 
down from the table. 
Phoebe. Oh, Nancy, something's com- 
ing ! Run, run quick, or it '11 catch us ! 
S^Both 7'im out. 
Curtain falls. 



ACT II. 

Best room m the house of Widow Eunice 
Hutchins, Ann's mother. John Ha- 
thorne <^;z^ Minister Parris enter, shoiun 
in by Widow Hutchins. 

HtitchiHs. I pray you, sirs, to take some 
cheers the while I go for a moment's 
space to my poor afflicted child. I heard 
her cry out but now. ' [Exit. 

[Hathorne a?id Parris seat them- 
selves, but Hathorne quickly 
sprijigs up, and begins walking. 

Hathorne. I cannot be seated in this 
crisis. I would as lief be seated in an 
onset of the savages. I must up and 
lay about me. We have heretofore 
been too lax in this dreadful business ; 
the powers of darkness be almost over 
our palisades. I tell thee there must 
be more action ! 

Parris {pounding with his cane). Yea, 
Master Hathorne, I am with thee. Verily, 
this last be enough to make the elect 
themselves quake with fear. This Mar- 



tha Corey is a woman of the cov- 
enant. 

Hat home. There must be no holding 
back. The powers of darkness be let 
loose amongst us, and they that be against 
them must be up. We must hang, hang, 
hang, till we overcome ! 

P arris. Yea, we must not falter, though 
all the woods of Massachusetts Bay be cut 
for gallows-trees, and the country be like 
Sodom. Verily, Satan hath manifested 
himself at the head of our enemies ; the 
colonies were never in such peril as now. 
We must strive as never before, or all 
will be lost. The wilderness full of ma- 
lignant savages, who be the veritable 
servants of Satan, closes us in, and the 
cloven footmark is in our midst. There 
must be no dallying an we would save 
the colonies. Widow Hutchins saith 
her daughter is grievously pressed. {A 
scream?) There, heard you that ? 

Hathonie. It is dreadful, dreadful, that 
an innocent maid should be so tormented 
by acts which her guileless fancy could 
never compass ! 

Pa7'rts. Verily, malignity hath ever 



cowardice in conjunction with it. Satan 
loveth best to afflict those who can make 
no defence, and fastens his talons first in 
the lambs. 

Enter Widow Hutch ins with the e?nbr ord- 
ered cape. 

Hutchins. Here, your worships, is the 
cape. 

Hat home {examines z't). I have seen 
women folk wear its like on the Sab- 
bath day. I can see naught unwonted 
about it. 

Pa?'rzs. It looketh like any cape. 

Hutchins. I fear it be not like any cape. 
Had your worships seen my poor child 
writhe under it, and I myself, when I 
would try it on, bent down to my knees 
as under a ton weight, your worships 
would not think it like any cape. 

Parris. I suspect there be verily evil 
work in the cape, and a witch's bodkin 
hath pierced these cunning eyelets. It 
goeth so fast now that erelong every 
guileless, senseless thing in our houses, 
down to the tinder-box and the candle- 
stick, will find hinges and turn into a 



gate, whereby witchcraft can enter. 
You say, Widow Hutchins, that Olive 
Corey gave this cape to your daughter? 

Hutchins. That did she. Yesterday 
evening Ann went down to Goody Corey's 
house for a little chat; she and Olive 
have been gossips ever since they were 
children, though lately there hath been 
somewhat of bitterness betv/ixt them. 

P arris. How mean you ? 

Hutchins. I have laid it upon my mind 
ere now to tell you, being much wrought 
up concerning it, and thinking that you 
might give me somewhat of spiritual 
consolation and advice. It was in this 
wise. Paul Bayley, who, they say, goeth 
every Sabbath night to Goody Corey's 
house and sitteth up until unseemly 
hours with Olive, looked once with a 
favorable eye upon my daughter Ann. 
Had your worships seen him, as I saw 
him one day in the meeting-house, look 
at Ann when she wore her green pad- 
uasoy, you had not doubted. Youths 
look not thus upon maidens unless they 
be inclined toward them. But this hussy 
Olive Corey did come between Paul and 



33 



my Ann, and that not of her own merits. 
There is nobody in Salem Village who 
would say that Olive Corey's looks be 
aught in comparison with my Ann's, 
but I trow Goody Corey hath arts which 
make amends for lack of beauty. I trow 
all ill-favored folk might be fair would 
they have such arts used upon them. 

Hathorne. What mean you by that 
saying.^ 

Htitchins. I mean Goody Cory hath 
devilish arts whereby she giveth her 
daughter a beauty beyond her own 
looks, wherewith she may entice young 
men. 

Hathorne. You say that this cape 
caused your daughter torment } 

Hutchins. Your worships, it lay on her 
neck like a fire-brand, and she thought 
she should die ere she cast it off. 

Hathorne. Widow Hutchins, will you 
now put on the cape } 

Hutchins. Oh, your worship, I dare 
not put it on ! I fear it will be the death 
of me if I do. 

Hathorne. Minister Parris, wilt thou 
put on the cape ? 



34 



Parris. Good Master Hathorne, it 
would ill behoove a minister of the gos- 
pel to put himself in jeopardy when so 
many be depending upon him to lead 
them in this dreadful conflict with the 
powers of darkness. But do thou put 
on the mantle the while I go to prayer 
to avert any ill that may come of it. 

HatJiorne. Nay, I will make no such 
jest of my office of magistrate as to put 
this woman's gear on my shoulders. I 
doubt if there be aught in it. Prithee, 
Widow Hutchins, when did this torment 
first come upon the young woman } 

Hutchins. Your worship, she went, as 
I have said, to Goody Corey's yester- 
evening to have a little chat with her 
gossip, Olive, and Paul Bayley came in 
also, and some of them did talk strangely 
about this witchcraft, Olive and Goody 
Corey nodding and winking, and mak- 
ing light of it. And then when Ann 
said she must be home, Paul rose quickly 
and made as though he would go with 
her, but Goody Corey would not let him, 
and herself went with Ann. And she 
did practise her devilish arts upon my 



poor child all the way home, and when 
my poor child got on the door-stone 
she burst open the door, and came in 
as though all the witches were after her, 
and she hath not been herself since. 
She hath ever since been grievously 
tormented, being set upon now by Goody 
Corey, and now by Olive, being choked 
and twisted about until I thought she 
would die, and so I fear she will, unless 
they be speedily put in chains. It seem- 
eth flesh and blood cannot endure it. 
Mercy Lewis is just come in, and she 
saw Goody Corey and Olive upon her 
when she opened the door. 

Hat home. This evil work must be 
stopped at all hazards, and this mon- 
strous brood of witches gotten out of 
the land. 

Parris. Yea, verily, although we have 
to reach under the covenant for them. 

\^Scr earns. 

Hutchins. Oh, your worships, my poor 
child will have no peace until they be 
chained in prison. 

Hathonie. They shall be chained in 
prison before the sun sets. I will at once 



36 



go forth and issue warrants for the 
arrest of Martha Corey and her daugh- 
ter. 

[More viole7it screams and loud 
voices overhead. 

P arris. Would it not be well, good 
Master Hathorne, for us to see the af- 
flicted maid before we depart ? 
Htiichins. Oh, I pray you, sirs, come 
up stairs to my poor child's chamber and 
see yourselves in what grievous torment 
she lies. She hath often called for Min- 
ister Parris, saying they dared not so 
afflict her were he there. 

Hathoj-nc. It would perchance be as 
well. Lead the way, if you will, Widow 
Hutchins. [Exeunt. Screams continue. 

E7tter Nancy Fox and Phoebe Morse 
stealthily from other door. Phoebe 
carries her rag doll. 

Nancy. Massy sakes, hear them 
screeches ! 

Phabe {clingi7ig to Nancy). Oh, Nancy, 
won't they catch us too ! I'm afraid ! 

Nancy. They can't touch us ; we're 
witches too. 



Phcebe. Massy sakes ! I forgot we were 
witches. 

Nancy. Hear that, will ye ? Ain't she 
a-ketchin' it ? 

Phcebe. Nancy, do you suppose it's the 
pin I stuck in my doll makes Ann screech 
that way ? 

Nancy. Most likely 'tis. Stick in an- 
other, and see if she screeches louder. 

Phoebe. No, I won't. I'll pull the pin 
out ; 'twas this one in my doll's arm. 
{Pttlls Old pin and fiings it on the floor ^ 
I won't have Ann hurt so bad as that if 
Olive did give her the cape. Why don't 
she stop screeching now, Nancy? Oh, 
Nancy, somebody's coming ! I hear 
somebody at the door. Crawl under 
the bed — quick ! quick ! 

[Phoebe gets down and begins to 
crawl U7ider the bed. Nancy tries 
to imitate her, but cannot be?id 
herself. 

Nancy. Oh, massy ! I've got a crick in 
my back, and I can't double up. What 
shall I do? {Tries to bend?) I can't; no, 
I can't ! 'Tis like a hot poker. Massy ! 
what '11 I do ? 



38 



P/icebe. You've (^ot to, Nanc3\ Quick! 

the latch is Hfting. Quick ! quick ! 

I'll push you. No ; I'll pull you. Here! 

{^Ptills Nancy down upo7i the fioor, 

and rolls her under the bed ; gets 

under herself just as the door is 

pushed opeJt. 

Ejiter Giles Covey 271 great excitemetit. 

Giles {rtinning across the roojn, and list- 
ening at the door leading to the chamber 
stairs). Devil take them ! why don't they 
put an end to it ? Why do they let the 
poor lass be set upon this way ? Screech- 
ing so you can hear her all over Salem 
Village ! There ! hear that, will ye ? Out 
upon them ! Widow Hutchins ! Widow 
Hutchins! Can't you give her some 
physic.^ Sha'n't I come up there with 
my musket ? Why don't they find out 
who is so tormenting her and chain her 
up in prison ? 'Tis some witch or other. 
Oh, I'd hang her; I'd tie the rope my- 
self. Poor lass ! poor lass ! 

[ The door is pushed open, and Giles 
starts back. 



Elite}' John Hathorne, Minister Parris, 
and Widow Hutchins. 

Giles. Good - day, Widow Hutchins. 
Shall I go up there with my musket ? 

Parris. I trow there be too many of 
thy household up there now. 

Giles. I'd lay about me till I hit some 
of 'em. I'll warrant I would. Oh, the 
poor lass ! hear that ! 

Parris. She is a grievous case. 

Giles. I heard the screeches out in the 
wood, and I ran in thinking I might do 
somewhat. I would Martha were here. 
I'll be bound she'd laugh and scoff at it 
no longer ! 

Hathorne. Laugh and scoff, say you ? 

Giles. That she doth. Martha acts as 
if the devil were in her about it. She 
doth nothing but laugh at and make 
light of the afflicted children, and saith 
there be no witches. She would not 
even believe 'twas aught out of the 
common when our ox and cat were 
took strangely. If she were herself a 
witch she could be no more stiff- 
necked. 



Parris. Doth she go out after night- 
fall? 

Giles. That she doth, in spite of all 
I can say. She hath no fear that 
an honest gospel woman should have 
in these times. She went out last 
night, and I was so angered that I 
charged her with galloping a broom- 
stick home. 

Ha//iorne. Did she deny it ? 

Gi'les. She laughed as she is wont to 
do. She even made a jest on't, when I 
could not when I would go to prayer, 
and the words stayed beyond my wits. I 
would she could be here now, and hear 
this! 

Parris. Perchance she doth. 

Giles. I'll warrant she'd lose somewhat 
of her stiff- necked ness. Hear that! 
Can't ye chain up the witch that's tor- 
menting the poor lass ? Is't Goody 
Osborn } 

Hat home. The witch will be chained 
and in prison before nightfall. Come, 
Minister Parris, we can do no good by 
abiding longer here. Methinks we have 
sufficient testimony. 



Parris. Verily the devil hath played 
into our hands. \_T/tey turn to leave, 

Hutchins. Oh, your worships, ye will 
use good speed for the sake of my poor 
child. 

Giles. Ay, be speedy about it. Put the 
baggage in prison as soon as may be, and 
load her down well with irons. 

Hat/ior?ie. I will strive to obey your 
commands well, Goodman Corey. Good- 
day, Widow Hutchins; your daughter 
shall soon find relief. 

Parris. Good-day, Widow Hutchins, 
and be of good cheer. 

{^Exeunt Hathorne and Parris, 
while Widow Hutchins courte- 
sies. 

Giles. Well, I must even be going too. 
I have my cattle to water. I but bolted 
in when I heard the poor lass screech, 
thinking I might do somewhat. Bi»t 
good Master Hathorne will see to it. 
Hear that ! Do ye go up to her, widow, 
and mix her up a bowl of yarb tea, till 
they put the trollop in prison. I'm off 
to water my cattle, then devil take me 
if I don't give the sheriffs a hand if they 



42 



need it. Goody Osborn's house is nigh 
mine. Good-day, widow. \^Exit Giles. 

HiitcJiins {laughing). Give the sheriffs 
a hand, will he ? Perchance he will, but 
I doubt me if 'tis not a fisted one. He 
sets his life by Goody Corey, however he 
rate her. {A scream from above <?/" " M oth- 
er ! Mother!") Yes, Ann, I'm coming, 
I'm coming! {Exit. 

Phcebe {crawls out from under the bed). 
Now, Nancy, we've got a chance to run. 
Come out, quick! Oh, if Uncle Corey 
had caught us here ! 

Nancy. I can't get out. Oh ! oh ! 
The rheumatiz stiffened me so I couldn't 
double up, and now it has stiffened me 
so I can't undouble. No, 'tis not rheu- 
matiz, 'tis Goody Bishop has bewitched 
me. I can't get out. 

Phcebe. You must, Nancy, or some 
body '11 come and catch us. Here, I'll 
pull you out. 

[ Tugs at Nancy's arms, and drags 
her out, groaning. 

Nancy. Here I am out, but I can't un- 
double. I'll have to go home on all- 
fours like a cat. Oh ! oh ! 



Phcebe. Give me your hands and I'll 
pull you up. Think you 'tis witchcraft, 
Nancy ? 

Nattcy. I know 'tis. 'Tis Goody Bish- 
op in her fine silk hood afflicts me. 
Oh, massy ! 

Phoebe. There, you are up, Nancy. 

Nancy. I ain't half undoubted. 

Phoebe. You can walk so, can't you, 
Nancy .^ Oh, come, quick! I think I 
hear somebody on the stairs. {Catches 
up her doll and seizes Nancy's hand.) 
Quick ! quick ! 

Na7tcy. I tell ye I can't go quick ; I 
ain't undoubled enough. Devil take 
Goody Bishop ! 

[Exif, hobbling and bent almost 
doicble, Phoebe tirging her along. 

Curtain falls. 



ACT III. 

The Meeting-house in Salem Village. En- 
ter People of Salem Village and take 
seats. The Afflicted Girls, anioiigwhoni 
are Ann Hutchins a7id Mercy Lewis, 
occupy the fro7tt seats. Nancy Fox aiid 
Phoebe. Enter the magistrates John 
Hathorne attd Jonathan Corwin with 
Minister Parris, escorted by the Marshal, 
Aids, and four Constables. They place 
themselves at a long table in front of the 
pulpit. 

Hathorne {rising). We are now pre- 
pared to enter upon the examination. 
We invoke the blessing of God upon our 
proceedings, and call upon the Marshal 
to produce the bodies of the accused. 

{Exeunt Marshal and Constables. 
Afflicted Girls twist about a?id 
groaji. Great excitement amo7ig 
the people. 

Enter Marshal and Constables leading 
Martha and Olive Corey in chains. 



Giles follows. The prisoners a re placed 
facing the assembly, with the Consta- 
bles holding their hands. Giles stands 
near. The Afflicted Girls rjiake a great 
clamor. 

Ann. Oh, they are tormenting ! They 
will be the death of me ! I will not ! I 
will not ! 

Giles. Hush your noise, will ye, Ann 
Hutchins ! 

Parris. Peace, Goodman Corey ! 

Hat home. Martha Corey, you are now 
in the hands of authority. Tell me now 
why you hurt these persons. 

Martha. I do not. I pray your wor- 
ships give me leave to go to prayer. 

Hathorne. We have not sent for you to 
go to prayer, but to confess that you are 
a witch. 

Martha. I am no witch. I am a gos- 
pel woman. There is no such thing as 
a witch. Shall I confess that I am what 
doth not exist ? It were not only a lie, 
but a fool's lie. 

Mercy. There is a black man whisper- 
ing in her ears. 



Hathorne. What saith the black man 
to you, goodwife ? 

Martha. I pray your worships to ask 
the maid. Perchance, since she sees 
him, she can also hear what he saith 
better than I. 

Hatho7-ne. Why do you not tell how 
the devil comes in your shape and hurts 
these maids? 

Martha. How can I tell how? I was 
never acquaint with the ways of the 
devil. I leave it to those wise maids 
who are so well acquaint to tell how. 
Perchance he hath whispered it in their 
ears. 

Afflicted Girls. Oh, there is a yellow 
bird ! There is a yellow bird perched 
on her head ! 

Hathorne. What say you to that, 
Goodwife Corey ? 

Martha. What can I say to such folly ? 

Hathorne. Constables, let go the hands 
of Martha Corey. 

[ The Constables let go her ha7ids, 
and inwiediately there is a great 
outcry from the Afflicted Girls. 

Afflicted Girls. She pinches us ! Hold 



her hands! Hold her hands again ! Oh! 
oh! 

Antt. She is upon me again ! She digs 
her fingers into my throat ! Hold her 
hands ! Hold her hands ! She will be 
the death of me ! 

Giles. Devil take ye, ye lying trollop ! 
'Tis a pity somebody had not been the 
death of ye before this happened ! 

Hat/ionte. Constables, hold the hands 
of the accused. 

[Constables obey, a7id at once the 
afflicted are quiet. 

HatJiorne. Goodwife Corey, what do 
you say to this ? 

Martha. I see with whom we have 
to do. May the Lord have mercy 
upon us! 

Hathonie. What say you to the charges 
that your husband, Giles Corey, hath 
many a time brought against you in the 
presence of witnesses — that you hinder- 
ed him when he would go to prayer, 
causing the words to go from him strange- 
ly ; that you were out after nightfall, 
and did ride home on a broomstick ; 
and that you scoffed at these maids and 



48 



their affliction, as if you were a witch 
yourself ? 

Giles. I said not so ! Martha, I said 
it not so ! 

Hathoriie. What say you to your hus- 
band's charge that you did afflicthis ox 
and cat, causing his ox to fall in the yard, 
and the cat to be strangely sick ? 

Giles. Devil take the ox and the cat! 
I said not that she did afflict them. 

Hat home. Peace, Goodman Corey ; 
you are now in court. 

Martha. I say, if a gospel woman is 
to be hung as a witch for every stumbling 
ox and sick cat, 'tis setting a high value 
upon oxen and cats. 

Giles. I would mine had all been 
knocked in the head, lass, and me too ! 

Hathorne. Peace ! Ann Hutchins, 
what saw you when Good wife Corey 
went home with you through the w^ood.? 

A7in. Hold fast her hands, I pray, or 
she will kill me. The trees were so full 
of yellow birds that it sounded as if a 
mighty wind passed over them, and the 
birds lit on Goody Corey's head. And 
black beasts ran alongside through the 



bushes, which did break and crackle, 
and they were at Goody Corey and me 
to go to the witch dance on the hill. 
And they said to bring Olive Corey and 
Paul Bayley. And Goody Corey told 
them how she and Olive would presently 
come, but not Paul, for he never would 
sign the book, not even though Olive 
trapped him by the arts they had taught 
her. And Goody Corey showed me the 
book then, and besought me to sign, and 
go with her to the dance. And when I 
would not, she and Olive also afflicted 
me so grievously that I thought I could 
not live, and have done so ever since. 

Hathorne. What say you to this. Good- 
wife Corey } 

Martha. I pray your worship believe 
not what she doth charge against my 
daughter. 

Cor%vin. Mercy Lewis, do you say that 
you have seen both of the accused af- 
flicting Ann Hutchins ? 

Mercy. Yes, your worship, many a 
time have I seen them pressing her to 
sign the book, and afflicting when she 
would not. 

4 



Corwz'n. How looked the book ? 

Mercy. 'Twas black, your worship, 
with blood-red clasps. 

Corwin. Read you the names in it ? 

Mercy. I strove to, your worship, but 
I got not through the C's; there were 
too many of them. 

Hathor7ie. Let the serving - woman, 
Nancy Fox, come hither. 

[Nancy Fox makes her way to the 
front. 

Hathorne. Nancy, I have heard that 
your mistress afflicts you. 

Nancy. That she doth. 

Hathorne. In what manner.? 

Na?tcy. She sendeth me to bed at first 
candlelight as though I were a babe ; she 
maketh me to wear a woollen petticoat 
in winter-time, though I was not brought 
up to't ; and she will never let me drink 
more than one mug of cider at a sitting, 
and I nigh eighty, and needing on't to 
warm my bones. 

Corwin. Hath she ever afflicted you } 
Your replies be not to the point, 
woman. 

Nancy. Your worship, she hath never 



had any respect for my understanding, 
and that hath greatly afflicted me. 

Hat/iorne. Hath she ever shown you a 
book to sign ? 

Nancy. Verily she hath ; and when I 
would not, hath afflicted me with sore 
pains in all my bones, so I cried out, on 
getting up, when I had" set awhile. 

Hathorne. Hath your mistress a fa- 
miliar? 

Naiicy. Hey ? 

Hathorne. Have you ever seen any 
strange thing with her ? 

Nancy. She hath a yellow bird which 
sits on her cap when she churns. 

Hathonie. What else have you seen 
with her ? 

Nancy. A thing like a cat, only it went 
on two legs. It clawed up the chimbly. 
and the soot fell down, and Goody Corey 
set me to sweeping on't up on the Lord's 
day. 

Giles. Out upon ye, ye lying old 
jade ! 

Hathorne. Silence ! Nancy, you may 
go to your place. Phoebe Morse, come 
hither. 



[Phoebe Morse approaches with 
her apro?t (roer her face, sobbing. 
She has her doll under her arm- 

Hathorne. Cease weeping, child. Tell 
me how your aunt Corey treats you. 
Hath she ever taught you otherwise than 
you have learned in your catechism ? 

Phcebe {weeping). I don't know. Oh, 
Aunt Corey, I didn't mean to ! I took 
the pins out of my doll, I did. Don't 
whip me for it. 

Hathoi'7ie. What doll ? What mean 
you, child ? 

Phoebe. I don't know. I didn't stick 
them in so very deep, Aunt Corey ! 
Don't let them hang me for it ! 

Hathorne. Did your aunt Corey teach 
you to stick pins into your doll to tor- 
ment folk ? 

Phoebe {sobbing convulsively). I don't 
know ! I don't know ! Oh, Aunt Corey, 
don't let them hang me ! Olive, you 
won't let them ! Oh ! oh ! 

Corwin. Methinks 'twere as well to 
make an end of this. 

Hathorne. There seemeth to me im- 
portant substance under this froth of 



tears. {To Phoebe.) Give me thy doll, 
child. 

Phcebe {clutching the dolt). Oh, my 
doll ! my doll ! Oh, Aunt Corey, don't 
let them have my doll ! 

Martha. Peace, dear child ! Thou 
must not begrudge it. Their worships 
be in sore distress just now to play with 
dolls. 

Parris. Give his worship the doll, 
child. Hast thou not been taught to 
respect them in authority } 

[Phoebe gives the doll to Hathorne, 
whimpering. Hathorne, Cor- 
win, and Parris put their heads 
together over it. 
Hathorjie {holding icp the doll). There 
be verily many pins in this image. Good- 
wife Corey, what know you of this ? 

Martha. Your worship, such a weighty 
matter is beyond my poor knowledge. 

Hathorne. Know you whence the 
child got this image ? 

Martha. Yes, your worship. I my- 
self made it out of a piece of an old 
homespun blanket for the child to play 
with. I stufTed it with lamb's wool, 



and sewed some green ravellings on its 
head for hair. I made it a coat out of 
my copperas-colored petticoat, and col- 
ored its lips and cheeks with pokeberries. 

Hathonie. Did you teach the child to 
stick in these pins wherewith to tor- 
ment folk ? 

Martha. It availeth me naught to say 
no, your worship. 

Mercy {screams). Oh, a sharp pain 
shoots through me when I look at the 
image ! 'Tis through my arms ! Oh ! 

Hathorne {examining the doll). There 
is a pin in the arms. 

Afin. I feel sharp pains, like pins, in 
my face ; oh, 'tis dreadful ! 

Hathor7ie {examining the doll). There 
are pins in the face. 

Phcebe {sobbing'). No, no ! Those are 
the pins I stuck in for Aunt Corey. 
Don't let them hang me, Aunt Corey. 

Parris. That is sufficient. She has 
confessed. 

Hathorne. Yes, methinks the child 
hath confessed whether she would or 
no. Goodwife Corey, Phoebe hath now 
plainly said that she did stick these pins 



in this image for you. What have you 
to say ? 

Martha {coiirtesyzjig). Your worship, 
the matter is beyond my poor speech. 

[Hathorne tosses the doll on the ta- 
ble, Phoebe watching anxiously. 

Hathorne. Go to your place, child. 

Phcebe. I want my doll. 

P arris. Go to thy place as his worship 
bids thee, and think on the precepts in 
thy catechism. [Phoebe returns sobbiiig. 

Afflicted Girls. Oh, Goody Corey turns 
her eyes upon us ! Bid her turn her 
eyes away ! 

Ann. Oh, I see a black cat sitting on 
Goody Corey's shoulder, and his eyes 
are like coals. Now, now, he looks at 
me when Goody Corey does ! Look 
away ! look away ! Oh, I am blind ! I 
am blind ! Sparks are coming into my 
eyes from Goody Corey's. Make her 
turn her eyes away, your worships ; make 
her turn her eyes away ! 

HathorJie. Goody Corey, fix your eyes 
upon the floor, and look not at these 
poor children whom you so afflict. 

Martha. May the Lord open the eyes 



of the magistrates and ministers, and give 
them sight to discover the guilty ! 

Parris. Why do you not confess that 
you are a witch ? 

Martha {with sudden fervor). I am 
no witch. There is no such thing as a 
witch. Oh, ye worshipful magistrates, 
ye ministers and good people of Salem 
Village, I pray ye hear me speak for a 
moment's space. Listen not to this tes- 
timony of distracted children, this raving 
of a poor lovesick, jealous maid, who 
should be treated softly, but not let to 
do this mischief. Ye, being in your fair 
wits and well acquaint with your own 
knowledge, must know, as I know, that 
there be no witches. Wherefore would 
God let Satan after such wise into a com- 
pany of His elect? Hath He not guard 
over His own precinct } Can He not 
keep it from the power of the Adversary 
as well as we from the savages } Why 
keep ye the scouts out in the fields if 
the Lord God hath so forsaken us } Call 
in the scouts ! If we believe in witches, 
we believe not only great wickedness, 
but great folly of the Lord God. Think 



ye in good faith that I verily stand here 
with a black cat on my shoulder and a 
yellow bird on my head ? Why do ye 
not see them as well as these maids ? I 
would that ye might if they be there. 
Black cat, yellow bird, if ye be upon my 
shoulder and my head, as these maids 
say, I command ye to appear to these 
magistrates ! Otherwise, if I have sign- 
ed the book, as these maids say, I swear 
unto ye that I will cross out my name, 
and will serve none but the God Al- 
mighty. Most worshipful magistrates, 
see ye the black cat ? See ye any yellow 
bird ? Why are ye not afflicted as well 
as these maids, when I turn my eyes 
upon ye ? I pray you to consider that. 
I am no saint ; I wot well that I have 
but poorly done the will of the Lord 
who made me, but I am a gospel woman 
and keep to the faith according to my 
poor measure. Can I be a gospel wom- 
an and a witch too ? I have never that 
I know of done aught of harm whether 
to man or beast. I have spared not my- 
self nor minded mine own infirmities in 
tasks for them that belonged to me, nor 



for any neighbor that had need. I say 
not this to set myself up, but to prove 
to you that I can be no witch, and my 
daughter can be no witch. Have I not 
watched nights without number with the 
sick.^ Have I not washed and dressed 
new-born babes .^ Have I not helped 
to make the dead ready for burial, and 
sat by them until the cock crew ? Have 
I ever held back when there was need 
of me.^ But I say not this to set myself 
up. Have I not been in the meeting- 
house every Lord's day.? Have I ever 
stayed away from the sacrament ? Have 
I not gone in sober apparel, nor wasted 
my husband's substance.? Have I not 
been diligent in my household, and spun 
and wove great store of linen ? Are not 
my floors scoured, my brasses bright, 
and my cheese-room well filled ? Look 
at me ! Can 1 be a witch ? 

A?tn. A black man hath been whisper- 
ing in her ear, telling her what to say. 

Hathome. What say you to that, 
Goody } 

Martha. I say if that be so, he told 
me not to his own advantage. I see 



with whom I have to do. I pray you 
give me leave to go to prayer. 

HatJi07'ne. You are not here to go to 
prayer. I much fear that your many 
prayers have been to your master, the 
devil. Constables, bring forward the 
body of the accused. 

[Afflicted Girls shriek. Constables 
lead Olive forward. Martha is 
led to one side. 

Martha. Be of good cheer, dear child. 

Giles. Yes, be not afraid of them, lass; 
thy father is here. 

Hathorne. Silence ! Olive Corey, why 
do you so afflict these other maids ? 

Olive. I do not, your Vv^orship. 

A?in. She is looking at me. Oh, bid 
her look away, or she will kill me ! 

Olive. Oh, Ann, I do not! What 
mean you, dear Ann } 

Hathorne. I charge you, Olive Corey, 
keep your eyes upon the floor. 

Giles. Look where you please, lass, 
and thy old father will uphold thee in 
it ; and I only wish your blue eyes could 
shoot pins into the lying hussies. 

Hathorne. Goodman, an ye disturb 



the peace again, ye shall be removed 
from court. Ann Hutchins, you have 
seen this maid hurt you ? 

Ann. Many a time she hath hurt me 
nigh to death. 

Olive. Oh, Ann, I hurt thee } 

Ami. There is a flock of yellow birds 
around her head. 

[Olive moves her head znvolunta- 
rily, and looks up. 

Ajfflicted Girls. See her look at them ! 

Hathorne. What say you to that, Ol- 
ive? 

Olive. I did not see them. 

Hathorne. Ann Hutchins, did you see 
this maid walking in the wood with a 
black man last week ? 

A7in. Yes, your worship. 

Hathorne. How did he go } 

Amt. In black clothes, and he had 
white hair. 

Hathorjie. How went the accused 1 

Ami. She went in her flowered petti- 
coat, and the flowers stood out, and smelt 
like real ones; her kerchief shone like a 
cobweb in the grass in the morning, and 
gold sparks flew out of her hair. Goody 



Corey fixed her up so with her deviUsh 
arts to trap Paul Bayley. 

Hathortie. What mean you ? 

Ann. To trap the black man, your 
worship. I knew not w4iat I said, I 
was in such torment. 

Hathortie. Olive Corey,did your mother 
ever so change your appearance by her 
arts ? 

Olive. My mother hath no arts, your 
worship. 

Ann. Her cheeks were redder than 
was common, and her eyes shone like 
stars. 

Hathor7ie. Olive, did your mother so 
change your looks. 

Olive. No, your worship ; I do not 
know what Ann may mean. I fear she 
be ill. 

Hatho7'ne. Mercy Lewis, did you see 
Olive Corey with the black man } 

Mer'cy. Yes, your worship ; and she 
called out to me to go with them to the 
dance, and I should have the black man 
for a partner; and when I would not 
she afflicted me, pulling my hair and 
pinching me. 



62 



Hat home. How appeared she to you ? 

Mercy. She was dressed like a puppet, 
finer than I had ever seen her. 

HatJwrjie. OHve, what did you wear 
when you walked with the black man ? 

Olive. Your worship, I walked with no 
black man. 

Ann. There he is now, standing behind 
her, looking over her shoulder. 

Hat home. What say you to that,01ive ? 

OHve {looking in tej'ror over her 
shoulder). I see no one. I pray you, 
let my father stand near me. 

Parris. Nay ; the black man is enough 
for you. 

Giles {forcing his way to his daughter). 
Here I be, lass ; and it will go hard if the 
hussies can see the black man and old 
Giles in one place. Where be the black 
man now, jades? 

Hathome {angrily). Marshal ! 

Corwin {interposing). Nay, good Mas- 
ter Hathorne, let Goodman Corey keep 
his standing. The maid looks near 
swooning, and albeit his manner be 
rude, yet his argument hath somewhat 
of force. In truth, he and the black man 



63 



cannot occupy one place. Mercy Lewis, 
see you now this black man any- 
where ? 

Mercy. Yes, your worship. 

Corwin. Where ? 

Me7'cy. Whispering in your worship's 
ear. 

Par7-zs. May the Lord protect his mag- 
istrates from the wiles of Satan, and main- 
tain them in safety for the weal of his 
afflicted people! 

Hathorfie. This be going too far. This 
be presumption ! Who of you now see 
the black man whispering to the wor- 
shipful esquire Jonathan Corwin ? 

Mercy. He is gone now out of the 
meeting-house. 'Twas but for a moment 
I saw him. 

Corzvnt. Speak up, children. Did any 
other of ye see the black man whispering 
to me ? 

Afflicted Girls. No ! no ! no ! 

Corwin. Mercy Lewis, you say of a 
truth you saw him? 

Mercy. Your worship, it may have 
been Minister Parris's shadow falling 
across the platform. 



64 



Corwin. This is but levity, and hath 
naught to do with the trial. 

Hathorne. We will proceed with the 
examination. Widow Eunice Hutchins, 
produce the cape. 

[Widow Hutchins comes forward, 
holdmg the cape by a corner. 
Hathorne. Put it over your daughter's 
shoulders. 

Hutchins. Oh, your worships, I pray 
you not ! It will kill her ! 

Ann. Oh, do not! do not! It will kill 
me ! Oh, mother, do not ! Oh, your 
worships! Oh, Minister Parris! 

Parris. Why put the maid to this 
needless agony } 

Corwin. Put the cape over her 
shoulders. 

[Widow Hutchins approaches Ann 

hesitatingly, and throws the cape 

over her shoulders. Ann sinks 

upon the floor, shrieking. 

Ann. Take it off! Take it off! It 

burns! It burns! Take it off! Have 

mercy ! I shall die ! I shall die ! 

Hathorne. Take off the cape ; that is 
enough. Olive Corey, what say you to 



6s 



this? This is the cape you gave Ann 
Hutchins. 

Olive. Oh, mother ! mother ! 

Martha {pushing forward). Nay, I will 
speak again. Ye shall not keep me from 
it ; ye shall not send me out of the meet- 
ing-house ! {The afflicted cry out) Peace, 
or I will afflict ye in earnest ! I will 
speak ! If I be a witch, as ye say, then 
ye have some reason to fear me, even ye 
most worshipful magistrates and minis- 
ters. It might happen to ye even to fall 
upon the floor in torment, and it would 
ill accord with your offices. Ye shall 
hear me. I speak no more for myself — 
ye may go hang me — I speak for my 
child. Ye shall not hang her, or judg- 
ment will come upon ye. Ye know there 
is no guile in her ; it were monstrous to 
call her a witch. It were less blasphemy 
to call her an angel than a witch, and ye 
know it. Ye know it, all ye maids she 
hath played with and done her little 
kindnesses to, ye who would now go 
hang her. That cape — that cape, most 
worshipful magistrates, did the dear 
child earn with her own little hands, 
s 



that she might give it to Ann, whom 
she loved so much. Knowing, as she 
did, that Ann was poor, and able to 
have but little bravery of apparel, it was 
often on her mind to give her somewhat 
of her own, albeit that was but scanty ; 
and she hath toiled overtimes at her 
wheel all winter, and sold the yarn in 
Salem, and so gained a penny at a time 
wherewithal to buy that cape for Ann. 
And now will it hang her, the dear 
child ? 

Dear Ann, dost thou not remember 
how thou and my Olive have spent 
days together, and slept together many 
a night, and lain awake till dawn talk- 
ing.'* Dost thou not remember how 
thou couldst go nowhere without Olive, 
nor she without thee, and how no little 
junketing were complete to the one were 
the other not there ? Dost thou not re- 
member how Olive wept when thy 
father died ? Mercy Lewis, dost thou 
not remember how my Olive came over 
and helped thee in thy work that time 
thou wert ailing, and how she lent thee 
her shoes to walk to Salem ? 



Oh, dear children, oh, maids, who 
have been playmates and friends with 
my dear child, ye will not do her this 
harm ! Do ye not know that she hath 
never harmed ye, and would die first? 
Think of the time when this sickness, 
that is nigh to madness, shall have passed 
over, and all is quiet again. Then will 
ye sit in the meeting-house of a Lord's 
day, and look over at the place where 
my poor child was wont to sit listening 
in her little Sabbath best, and ye will see 
her no more, but will say to yourselves 
that ye have murdered her. And then of 
a week-day ye will see her no more spin- 
ning at her wheel in the doorway, nor 
tending the flowers in her garden. She 
will come smiling in at your doors no 
more, nor walk the village street, and ye 
will always see where she is not, and 
know that ye have murdered her. Oh, 
poor children, ye are in truth young, and 
your minds, I doubt not, sore bewildered ! 
If I have spoken harshly to ye, I pray ye 
heed it not, except as concerns me. I 
wot well that I am now done with this 
world, and I feel already the wind that 



68 



bloweth over Gallows Hill in my face. 
But consider well ere ye do any harm 
to my dear child, else verily the day will 
come when ye will be more to be pitied 
than she. Oh, ye will not harm her ! 
Ye will take back your accusation ! Oh, 
worshipful magistrates, oh. Minister Par- 
ris, I pray you have mercy upon this 
child ! I pray you mercy as you will 
need mercy ! {Falls upon her knees. 

Hathorne. Rise, woman ; it is not now 
mercy, but justice that has to be con- 
sidered. 

Parris. In straits like this there is no 
mercy in the divine will. Shall mercy be 
shown Satan ? 

Corwiii. Mercy Lewis, is it in truth 
Olive Corey who afflicts you } 

Mercy {hesztah'ng). I am not so sure 
as I was. 

Ot/ier Afflicted Girls. Nor I ! nor I ! 
nor I ! 

Mercy. Last time I was somewhat 
blinded and could not see her face. 
Methinks she was something taller than 
Olive. 

A7m {shrieks). Oh, Olive is upon me ! 



69 



The sun shines on her face ! I see her, 
she is choking me ! Oh ! oh ! 

Mercy {to Ann). Hush ! If she be 
put away you'll not get Paul Bayley; 
I'll tell you that for a certainty, Ann 
Hutchins. 

A7in. Oh ! oh ! she is killing me ! 

Mercy. I see her naught ; 'tis a taller 
person who is afflicting Ann. {To Ann.) 
Leave your outcries or I will confess to 
the magistrates. [Ann becomes quiet. 

Corwi'n. Ann Hutchins, saw you in 
truth Olive Corey afflicting you.? 

Ann {sulleftly). It might have been 
Goody Corey. 

Corwin. Mercy Lewis, saw you of a 
certainty Olive Corey walking in the 
wood with a black man.? 

Mercy. It was the wane of the moon ; 
I might have been mistaken. It might 
have been Goody Corey ; their carriage 
is somewhat the same. 

Corwi'n. Give me the cape. Widow 
Hutchins. (Widow Hutchins hands hint 
the cape ; he puts it over his shoulders^ 
Verily I perceive no great inconvenience 
from the cape, except it is an ill fit. 



[ Takes it off and lays it on the table. 
The two magistrates and Minis- 
ter Parris 7vhisper together. 

Hatho7-7te. Having now received the 
testimony of the afflicted and the wit- 
nesses, and duly weighted the same ac- 
cording to our judgment, being aided to 
a decision, as we believe, by the divine 
wisdom which we have invoked, we de- 
clare the damsel Olive Corey free and 
quit of the charges against her. And 
Martha Corey, the wife of Giles Corey, 
of Salem Village, we commit unto the 
jail in Salem until — 

Giles. Send Martha to Salem jail ! 
Out upon ye ! Why, ye be gone clean 
mad, magistrates and ministers and all ! 
Send Martha to jail ! Why, she must 
home with me this night and get sup- 
per ! How think ye I am going to live 
and keep my house ? Load Martha down 
with chains in jail! Martha a witch! 
Then, by the Lord, she keeps His com- 
pany overmuch for one of her trade, for 
she goes to prayer forty times a day. 
Martha a witch ! Think ye Goodwife 
Martha Corey gallops a broomstick to 



the hill of a night, with her decent pet- 
ticoats flapping ? Who says so ? 1 would 
I had my musket, and he'd not say so 
twice to Giles Corey. And let him say 
so twice as 'tis, and meet my fist, an 
he dares. I be an old man, but I could 
hold my own in my day, and there be 
some of me left yet. Who says so twice 
to old Giles Corey ? Martha a witch ! 
Verily she could not stop praying long 
enough to dance a jig through with the 
devil. Martha ! Out upon ye, ye lying 
devil's tool of a parson, that seasons 
murder with prayer! Out upon ye, 
ye magistrates ! your hands be redder 
than your fine trappings ! Martha a 
witch ! Ye yourselves be witches, and 
serving Satan, and he a-tickling in his 
sleeve at ye. Send Martha in chains to 
Salem jail, ye will, will ye ? (Forces his 
way to Martha, a7id throws his arm 
around her.) Be not afraid, good lass, 
thy man will save thee. Thou shalt not 
go to jail ! I say thou shalt not ! I'll 
cut my way through a whole king's 
army ere thou shalt. I'll raise the devil 
myself ere thou shalt. and set him tooth 



and claw on the whole brood of them. 
I'll — {One of the afflicted shrieks. Giles 
turns up07i thejn.) Why, devil take ye, 
ye lying hussies, ye have done this ! Ye 
should be whipped through the town at 
the tail of a cart, every one of ye. Ye 
ill-favored little jades, puling because no 
man will have ye, and putting each other 

up to this d mischief for lack of 

something better. Out upon ye, ye 
little— 

Mercy {jiunping up aiid screaming iti 
agony). Oh, Giles Corey is upon me ! 
He is afflicting me grievously ! Oh, I 
will not ! Chain him ! chain him ! 
chain him ! 

A7171. Oh, this is worse than the others ! 
This is dreadful ! He's strangling me ! 
I — Oh — your — worships! Oh — help! — 
help ! \ Falls tipon the floor. 

Afflicted Girls. Chain him ! chain him ! 

Hat home. Marshal, take Giles Corey 
into custody and chain him. 

[Marshal and Constables advance. 

Tableau — Curtain falls. 



ACT IV. 

The living-roo7n iji Giles Corey's house. 
Nancy Fox and the child Phoebe Morse 
sit beside the hearth ; each has her 
apron over her face, weeping. 

Phcebe {sobbing). I — want my Aunt — 
Corey and — my Uncle Corey. Why 
don't they com.e ? Oh, deary me ! 

[Phcebe jumps up and runs to the 
window. 

Nancy. See you anybody coming? 

Phcebe. There is a dame in a black hood 
coming past the popple-trees. Oh, Nancy, 
come quick ; see if it be Aunt Corey I 

Nancy. Where be my spectacles — 
where be they ? {Runs about the room 
searching^ Oh Lord, what's the use of 
living to be so old that you're scattered 
all over the house like a seed thistle ! 
Having to hunt everywhere for your eyes 
and your wits whenever you want to use 
'em, and having other folks a-meddling 
with 'em ! Where be the spectacles ? 
They be not in the cupboard ; they be 



not on the dresser. Where be they ? I 
trow this be witch-work. I know well 
enough what has become of my good horn 
spectacles. Goody Bishop hath witched 
them away, thinking they would suit well 
with her fine hood. I know well that I — 

Phcebe (^sobbing ahud). Oh, Nancy, it 
is not Aunt Corey. It is only Goodwife 
Nourse. 

Nancy, May the black beast catch 
her ! Be you sure ? 

Phoebe. Yes ; she is passing our gate. 
Oh, Nancy, what shall we do } what 
shall we do } 

Nancy. I would that I had my fingers in 
old man Hathorne's fine wig. I would 
yank it off for him, and fling it to the 
pigs. A-sending master and mistress to 
jail, and they no more witches than I be ! 

Phcebe. Oh, Nancy, be we witches.? 
They have not sent us to jail. 

Nancy. I know not what we be. My 
old head will not hold it all. It is time 
they came home. There is not a crumb 
of sweet-cake in the house, and the stop- 
ple is so tight in the cider-barrel that I 
cannot stir it a peg. [Weeps. 



Phoebe. Nancy, did they send Aunt 
Corey and Uncle Corey to jail because 
I stuck the pins in my doll ? 

Nancy. I know not. I tell ye my old 
head spins round like a flax -wheel ; when 
I put my finger on one spoke 'tis another 
one. These things be too much for a 
poor old woman like me. It takes folks 
like their worships the magistrates and 
Minister Parris to deal with black men 
and witches, and keep their wits in no 
need of physic. 

Phoebe. Oh, Nancy, I know what I will 
do ! Oh, 'tis well I snatched my doll off 
the meeting-house table that day after 
the trial, and ran home with it under my 
apron ! {Runs to the settle, takes up the 
doll, which is lyijig there, and kisses it^ 
Here is one kiss for Aunt Corey, here is 
another kiss for Aunt Corey, here is an- 
other, and another, and another. Here 
is one kiss for Uncle Corey, and here is 
another kiss for Uncle Corey, and here 
is another, and another, and another. 
There, Nancy ! will not this do away 
with the pin pricks, and they be let out 
of jail ? 



Nancy. I know not. My old head 
bobs like a pumpkin in a pond. I would 
master and mistress were home. These 
be troublous times for an old woman. I 
would I could stir the stopple in the 
cider- barrel. Look again, and see if 
mistress be not coming up the road. 

Ph(£be. It is of no use. I have looked 
for a whole week, and she has not come 
in sight. I want my Aunt Corey ! Nancy, 
have I not done away with the pin 
pricks.^ Tell me, will she be not let 
out of jail } Oh, there's Paul coming past 
the window ! He's got home ! Olive ! 
Olive ! 

Enter Paul Bayley. Phoebe runs to him. 

PJtoebe. Oh, Paul, they've put Aunt 
Corey and Uncle Corey in Salem jail 
while you were gone ! Can't you get 
them out, Paul, can't you ? 

Paul. Where is Olive } 

Pha;be. She is in her chamber. She 
stays there all the time at prayer. Olive ! 
Olive ! Paul is come. 

[Calls at the foot of cha?)iber stairs. 

^aul. Olive! 



Olive comes sloivly down the stairs and 
enters. 

Paid {seizing her in his arms). Oh, 
my poor lass, what is this that hath come 
to thee ? 

Olive. This is what thou feared when 
we parted, Paul, and more. 

Paul. I but heard of it as I came 
through Salem on my way hither. Oh, 
'tis devilish work ! 

Olive. They let me loose, but father 
and mother are in Salem jail. 

Paul. Poor lass ! 

Olive. Can you do naught to help 
them, Paul ? 

Paul. Olive, I will help them, if there 
be any justice or unclouded minds left 
in the colony. 

Olive. Thou art in truth here, Paul ; 
it is thy voice. 

Paul. Whose voice should it be, dear 
heart ? 

Olive. I know not. For a week I have 
thought I heard so many voices. The 
air seemed full of voices a- calling me, 
but I heeded them not, Paul, I kept 



78 



all the time at prayer and heeded them 
not. 

Paul. Of course thou didst not. There 
were no voices to heed. 

Olive. Sometimes I thought I heard 
birds twittering, and sometimes I 
thought there was something black at 
my elbow, and in the night-time faces at 
my window. Paul, was there aught there } 

Paid. No, no ; there was naught there. 
Birds and black beasts and faces ! This 
be all folly, Olive ! 

Olive. They saw a black man by my 
side in the meeting-house — Ann saw 
him. She cried out that the cape I gave 
her put her to dreadful torment. Can I 
have been a witch unknowingly, and so 
done this great evil to my father and 
mother.'* Tell me, Paul. 

Paul. Call up thy wits, Olive ! I tell 
thee thou art no witch. There was no 
black man at thy side in the meeting- 
house. Black man ! I would one would 
verily lay hands on that lying hussy. 
Thou art no witch. 

[Phoebe 7'ushes to Olive, and clings 
to her, sobbing. 



Phoebe. You are not a witch, Olive. 
You are not. If Ann says so I will pinch 
her and scratch her. I will ! yes, I will 
— I will scratch her till the blood runs. 
You are not a witch. I was the one that 
got them into jail. I stuck pins into my 
doll, but I have made up for it now. 
They'll be let out. Don't cry, Olive. 

Najicy. Don't you fret yourself, Olive. 
I trow there's no witch-mark on you. 
It's Goody Bishop in her fine silk hood 
that's at the bottom on't. I know, I 
know. Perchance Paul could loose the 
stopple in the cider-barrel. I am need- 
ful of somewhat to warm my old bones. 
This witch-work makes them to creep 
with chills like long snakes. 

Olive. They say my mother will soon 
be hanged, and I perchance a witch, and 
the cause of it. I cannot get over it. 
{Moves away from thetn) If I be a 
witch, I shall hurt thee, as I perchance 
have hurt them. [ Weeps. 

Paid. Olive Corey, what is that ? 

Olive {looking up). What ? What mean 
you, Paul } [Nancy and Phoebe stare. 

Paul. There, over the cupboard. Is 



it — Yes, 'tis — cobwebs. I trow I never 
saw such a sight in Goodwife Corey's 
house before. 

Olive. I will brush them down, Paul. 

Paid {looking at the floor). And I doubt 
me much if the floor has been swept up 
this week past, and the hearth is all 
strewn with ashes. I trow Goodwife 
Corey would weep could she see her 
house thus. 

Olive. I will get the broom, Paul. 

Paid. I know well thou hast not spun 
this last week, that the cream is too far 
gone to be churned, and the cheeses have 
not been turned. 

Nancy. 'Tis so, Paul ; and there's no 
sweet-cake in the house, either. 

Paid. Thou art no such housewife as 
thy mother, Olive Corey ! One would 
say she had not taught thee. I trow 
she was a good housewife, and notable 
among the neighbors ; but this will take 
from her reputation that she hath so 
brought thee up. I trow could she see 
this house 'twould give her a new ache 
in her heart among all the others. 

Olive. I will mind the house, Paul. 



Paul. Ay, mind the house, poor lass ! 
Know you, Olive, that there is a rumor 
abroad in Salem that your father will re- 
fuse to plead, and will stand mute at his 
trial ? 

Olive. Wherefore will he do that ? 

Paul. I scarcely know why. Has he 
made a will, 'twill not be valid were he 
to plead at a criminal trial ; there will 
be an attainder on it. They say that is 
one reason, and that he thinks thus to 
show his scorn of the whole devilish 
work, and of a trial that is no trial. 

Olive. What is the penalty if he stand 
mute } 

Paul. 'Tis a severe one ; but he shall 
not stand mute. 

Phcebe. Oh, Paul, get Aunt Corey out 
of jail ! Can't you get Aunt Corey out 
of jail } 

Nancy. Perchance you could pry up 
the hook of the jail door with the old 
knife. It will be dark to-night. There 
is no moon until three o'clock in the 
morning. 

Olive. Paul, think you not that my 
father's sons-in-law might do somewhat ? 



They are men of influence. Their wives 
are but my half-sisters, but they are his 
own daughters. I marvel they have not 
come to me since this trouble. 

Paid. Olive, his sons-in-law have sent 
in their written testimony against him 
and your mother. 

Olive. Paul, it cannot be so ! 

Paid. They have surely so testified. 
There is no help to be had from them. 
I have a plan. 

Olive. All is useless, Paul. His sons- 
in-law, his own daughters' husbands, 
have turned against him ! There is no 
help anywhere. My mother will soon 
be hanged. Minister Parris said so last 
night when he came. And he knelt 
yonder and prayed that I might no 
longer practise witchcraft. My father 
and mother are lost, and I have brought 
it upon them. Talk no more to me, 
Paul. 

Patd. Then, perchance your mother 
be a witch, Olive Corey. 

Oli7>e. My mother is not a witch. 

Paul. Doth not Minister Parris say 
so.-^ And if he speak truth when he calls 



83 



you a witch, why speaks he not truth of 
your mother also ? I trow, if you be a 
witch, she is. 

Olive. My mother is no witch, and I 
am no witch, Paul Bayley ! 

Paul. Mind you stick to that, poor 
lass ! Now, I go to Boston to the Gov- 
ernor. There lies the only hope for thy 
parents. 

Olive. Think you the Governor will 
listen } Oh, he must listen ! Thou hast 
a masterful way with thee, Paul. When 
wilt thou start ? Oh, if I had not thee ! 

Paid. I would I could make myself 
twenty-fold 'twixt thee and evil, sweet. 
1 will get Goodman Nourse's horse and 
start to-night. 

Olive. Then go, go ! Do not wait ! 

Paul. I will not wait. Good-by, dear 
heart. Keep good courage, and put 
foolish fancies away from thee. 

^Embraces her. 

Olive {freeiftg herself). This is no time 
for love-making, Paul. I will mind the 
house well and keep at prayer. Thou 
need 'st not fear. Now, haste, haste ! Do 
not wait ! 



Paul. I will be on the Boston path in 
a half-hour. Good-by, Olive. Please 
God, I'll bring thee back good news. 

\^Exit Paul. 

[Olive stands in the door watching 

him depart. Phoebe steals up 

to her afid throws her ar?ns 

around her. Olive ttir7is sud- 

dejily and embraces the child. 

Olive. Come, sweet ; while Paul sets 

forth to the Governor, we will go to 

prayer. Nancy, come, we will go to 

prayer that the Governor may lend a 

gracious ear, and our feet be kept clear 

of the snares of Satan. Come, we will 

go to prayer ; there is naught left for us 

but to go to prayer ! 

Tableau— Curtain falls. 



ACT V. 

Szx weeks later. Giles Corey's cell in 
Saleinjail. It is early mortiing. Giles. 
heavily chained^ is sleepi7ig upon his 
bed. A noise is heard at the door. 
Giles stirs and raises himself. 

Giles. Yes, Martha, I'm coming. {Noise 
continues.) I'm coming, Martha. {Stares 
around the cell.) God help me, but I 
thought 'twas Martha calling me to 
supper, and 'tis a month since she died 
on Gallows Hill. I verily thought that 
I smelt the pork frying and the pan- 
cakes. 

The door is opened and the Guard, bring- 
ing a dish of porridge, enters ; he sets 
it on the floor beside the bed, then ex- 
ajnines Giles's chains. 

Giles. Make sure they be strong, else 
it will verily go hard with the hussies. 
They will screech louder yet, and be 
more like pin-cushions than ever. Art 
sure they be strong ? 'Twere a pity such 



guileless and tender maids should suffer, 
and old Giles Corey's hands be rough. 
He hath hewn wood and handled the 
plough for nigh eighty years with them, 
and now these pretty maids say he hurts 
their soft flesh. In truth, they must be 
sore afflicted. Prithee are the chains 
well riveted ? I thought last night one 
link seemed somewhat loose as though 
it might be forced, and old Giles Corey 
hath still some strength ; and hath he 
witchcraft, as they say, it might well 
make him stronger. Be wary about the 
chains for the sake of those godly and 
tender maids. 

{^Exit Guard. Giles takes the dish 
of porridge and eats. 
Giles {making a wry face). This be rare 
porridge ; it be rare enough to charge the 
cook on't with witchcraft. It might well 
have been scorched in some hell-fire. I 
trow Martha would have flung it to the 
pigs. I verily thought 'twas Martha call- 
ing me to supper, and I smelt the good 
food cooking, and Martha hung a month 
since on Gallows Hill. Who's that at 
the door now ? 



87 



Guard opens the door a?td Paul Bayley 
e7iters. Giles takes another spoonful of 
porridge. 

Paul. Good-day, Goodman Corey. 

Giles. Taste this porridge, will ye. 

Paul {tastes the porridge). 'Tis burned. 

Giles. It be rare food to keep up the 
soul of an old man who hath set himself 
to undergo what I have set myself to 
undergo. But it matters not. I trow 
old Giles Corey may well have eat all his 
life unknowingly to this end, and hath 
now somewhat of strength to fall back 
upon. He needs no dainty fare to make 
him strong to undergo what he hath set 
himself. How fares my daughter } 

Paul. As well as she can fare, poor 
lass ! I saw her last evening. She is now 
calmer in her mind, and she goeth about 
the house like her mother. 

Giles. Her mother set great store by 
her. She would often strive in prayer 
that she should not make an idol of her 
before the Lord. 

Paul. Goodman, it goes hard to tell 
you, but I had an audience yesterday 



again with Governor Phipps, an' 'twas in 
vain. 

Giles {laughmg). In vain, say ye 'twas 
in vain ? Why, I looked to see the par- 
don sticking out of your waistcoat pock- 
et ! Why went ye again to Boston ? 
Know ye not that this whole land is now 
a bedlam, and the Governors and the 
magistrates swell the ravings ? Seek ye 
in bedlam for justice of madmen ? It is 
not now pardon or justice that we have 
to think on, but death, and the best that 
can be made out on't. Know ye that my 
trial will be held this afternoon ? 

Paul. Yes, Goodman Corey. 

Giles. Sit ye down on this stool. I have 
much I would say to ye. 

[Paul seats himself on a stool. Giles 
sits on his bed. 

Giles. Master Bayley, ye have been 
long a -courting my daughter. Do ye 
propose in good faith to take her to 
wife } 

Paul. With the best faith that be in 
me. 

Giles. Then I tell ye, man, take her 
speedily — take her within three weeks. 



Paul. I would take her with all my 
heart, goodman, would she be willing. 

Giles. She must needs be willing. Why, 
devil take it ! be ye not smart enough 
to make her willing } It will all go for 
naught if she be not willing. Tell her 
her father bids her. She hath ever mind- 
ed her father. 

Paul. I will tell her so, goodman. 

Giles. Tell her 'tis the last command 
her father gives her. If she say no, hear 
it yes. Do not ye give it up if ye have 
to drag her to 't. Why, she must not be 
left alone in the world. It be a hard 
world. Old Giles hath gone far in it, 
and found it ever a hard world. Verily 
it be not cleared any more than the 
woods of Massachusetts. It be hard 
enough for a man ; a young maid must 
needs have somebody to hold aside the 
boughs for her. Wed her, if she will or 
no. I have somewhat to show ye, Mas- 
ter Bayley. {Draws a document from his 
waistcoat?) See ye this ? 

[Paul takes the document and ex- 
amines it. 

Giles, See ye what 'tis } 



Paul. It is a deed whereby you convey 
all your property to me, so I be Olive's 
husband. Wherefore ? 

Giles. It be drawn up in good form. It 
be duly witnessed. You see that it be 
all in good form, Paul. 

Paul. I see. But wherefore } 

Giles. It will stand in law ; there will 
be no getting loose from it. It be a good 
and trusty document. But — so be it that 
this afternoon I stand trial for witch- 
craft, and plead guilty or not guilty, this 
same good and trusty document will be 
worth less than the parchment 'tis writ 
on. Tis so with the law. There will be 
an attainder on't. My sons-in-law that 
testified to the undoing of Martha and 
me will have their share, and thou and 
Olive perchance have naught in this 
bedlam. I bear no ill will toward my 
sons-in-law and my daughters, who have 
been put up by them to deal falsely with 
Martha and me, but I would not that 
they have my goods. I bear no ill will ; 
it becometh not a man so near death to 
bear ill will. But they shall not have 
my goods ; I say they shall not. There 



shall be no attainder on this document. 
I will stand mute at my trial. 

Paul. Goodman Corey, know you the 
penalty ? 

Giles. I trow I know it better than the 
catechism. 'Tis to be pressed beneath 
stone weights until I be dead. 

Paul. I say you shall not do this thing. 
What think you I care for your goods } 
I'll have naught to do with them, nor 
will Olive. This is madness! 

Giles. 'Tis not all for the goods. I 
would Olive had them, and not those 
foul traitors ; but 'tis not all. Were there 
no goods and no attainder, I would still 
do this thing. Paul, they say that Mar- 
tha spake fair words when they had her 
there on Gallows Hill. 

Paul. She spake like a martyr at the 
door of heaven. 

Giles. Did they let her speak long } 

Paid. They cut her short. Minister 
Parris saying, " Let not this firebrand of 
hell burn longer." 

Giles. Then they put the rope to her 
neck. Martha had a fair neck when she 
was a maid. Did she struggle much } 



Paul. Not much. 

Giles. Then they left her hanging there 
a space. It was a wet day, and the rain 
pelted on her. I remember it was a wet 
day. The rain pelted on her, and the 
wind blew, and she swung in it. I swear 
to thee, lass, I will make amends ! I will 
suffer twenty pangs for thy one. 

Paul. 'Tis not you who should make 
amends. 

Giles. I tell ye I did Martha harm. 
When she chid my folly and the folly of 
others, I did bawl out at her, and say 
among folk things to her undoing, 
though I meant it not as they took it. 
Now I will make amends, and the King 
himself shall not stop me, Martha was 
a good wife. I know not how I shall 
make myself seemly for the court this 
afternoon. My coat has many stitches 
loose in it. She was a good wife. I will 
make amends to thee, lass ; I swear I 
shall make amends to thee! I will come 
where thou art by a harder road than the 
one I made thee go. 

Paul. It was not you, good man. You 
overblame yourself. Those foul-mouthed 



9J 



jades did it, and those bloodthirsty mag- 
istrates. 

Giles. I tell ye I did part on't. I was 
wroth with her that she made light of 
this witch -work over which I was so 
mightily wrought up, and I said words 
that they twisted to her undoing. Ver- 
ily, words can be made to fit all fancies. 
Twere safer to be mute — as I'll be this 
afternoon. 

Paid. Goodman Corey, you must not 
think of this thing. There is still some 
hope from the trial. They will not dare 
murder you too. 

Giles. There be some things in this 
world folks may not bear, but there be 
no wickedness they'll stick at when they 
get started on the way to 't. 'Tis death 
in any case, and what would ye have me 
do } Stand before their mad worships 
and those screeching jades, and plead as 
though I were before folk of sound mind 
and understanding? Think ye I would 
so humble myself for naught ? 

Paid. But Olive ! I tell you 'twill kill 
her ! There may be a chance yet, and 
you should throw not away however 



small a one for Olive's sake. She can 
bear no more. 

Giles. There is no chance, and if there 
were — I tell ye if I had a hundred daugh- 
ters, and every one such a maid as she, 
and every one were to break her heart, 
I would do this thing I have set myself 
to do. There be that which is beyond 
human ties to force a man, there be that 
which is at the root of things. 

Paul. We will have none of your goods, 
I tell you that, Giles Corey ! 

Giles. Goods. The goods be the least 
of it ! Old Giles Corey be not a deep 
man. I trow he hath had a somewhat 
hard skull, but when a man draws in 
sight of death he hath a better grasp at 
his wits than he hath dreamed of. This 
be verily a mightier work than ye think. 
It shall be not only old Giles Corey that 
lies pressed to death under the stones, 
but the backbone of this great evil in the 
land shall be broke by the same weight. 
I tell ye it will be so. I have clearer un- 
derstanding, now I be so near the end 
on't. They will dare no more after me. 
To-day shall I stand mute at my trial, 



but my dumbness shall drown out the 
clamor of my accusers. Old Giles Corey 
will have the best on't. 'Tis for this, 
and not for the goods, I will stand 
mute ; for this, and to make amends to 
Martha. 

Paul. Giles Corey, you shall not die 
this dreadful death. If death it must be, 
and it may yet not be, choose the easier 
one. 

Giles. Think ye I cannot do it? {Rises) 
Master Paul Bayley, you see before you 
Giles Corey. He be verily an old man, 
he be over eighty years old, but there be 
somewhat of the first of him left. He 
hath never had much power of speech ; 
his words have been rough, and not given 
to pleasing. He hath been a rude man, 
an unlettered man, and a sinner. He 
hath brawled and blasphemed with the 
worst of them in his day. He hath giv- 
en blow for blow, and I trow the other 
man's cheek smarted sorer than old 
Giles's. Now he be a man of the cove- 
nant, but he be still stifif with his old 
ways, and hath no nimbleness to shunt 
a blow. Old Giles Corey hath no fine 



96 



wisdom to save his life, and no grace of 
tongue, but he hath power to die as he 
will, and no man hath greater. 

Paul. Goodman Corey, I — 

[Guard opens the door. 

Guard. Here is your daughter to see 
you, Goodman Corey. 

Giles. Tell her I will see her not. What 
brought her here? I know. Minister 
Parris hath sent her, thinking to tempt 
me from my plan. I will see her not. 

Olive {from withoiif). Father, you can- 
not send me away. 

Giles. Why come you here } Go home 
and mind the house. 

Olive. Father, I pray you not to send 
me away. 

Paul. If you be hard with her, you 
will kill her. 

Giles. Come in. 

Enter Olive. 

Olive. What is this you will do, fa- 
ther } 

Giles. My duty, lass. 

Olive. Father, you will not die this 
dreadful death } 



Giles. That will I, lass. 

Olive. Then I say to you, father, so 
will I also. The stones will press you 
down a few hours' space, and they will 
press me down so long as I may live. 
You will be soon dead and out of the 
pains, but you will leave your death 
with the living. 

Giles. Then must the living bear it. 

Olive. Father, you may yet be acquit- 
ted. Plead at your trial. 

Giles. Work the bellows in the face of 
the north wind. Oh, lass, why came you 
here? 'Tis worse than the stones. Talk 
no more to me, good lass; womenkind 
should meddle not with men's plans. 
But promise me you will wed with Paul 
here within three weeks. 

Olive. I will never wed. 

Giles. Ye will not, hey.? Ye will wed 
with Master Paul Bayley within three 
weeks. 'Tis the last command your fa- 
ther gives thee. 

Olive. Think you I can wed when 
you — 

Giles. Ay, I do think so, lass, and so 
ye will. 

7 



98 



Olive. Father, I will not. But if you 
plead I will, I promise you I will. 

Giles. I will not, and you will. Lass, 
since you be here, I pray you set a 
stitch in this seam in ray coat. I would 
look tidy at the trial, for thy mother's 
sake. Hast thou thy huswife with 
thee } 

Olive. Yes, father. 

[Olive threads a needle, and stand- 
ing beside her father, sets the 
stitch ; weeps as she does so. 

Giles. Know you every tear adds weight 
to the stones, lass ? 

Olive. Then will I weep not. [Mends. 

Giles. Be the child and the old woman 
well.? 

Olive. Yes, father. 

Giles. Look out for them as you best 
can. And see to 't the little maid's linen 
chest is well filled, as your mother would 
have. [Olive breaks off the thread. 

Giles. Be the stitch set strong } 

Olive. Yes, father. 

Giles {turning and folding her to his 
arms). Oh, my good lass, the stones be 
naught, but this cometh hard, this 



Cometh hard ! Could they not have 
spared me this ? 

Olive. Father, listen to me, listen to 
me — 

Giles. Lass, I must listen to naught 
but the voice of God. 'Tis that speaks, 
and bids me do this thing. Thou must 
come not betwixt thy father and his God. 

Olive. Father ! father ! 

Giles. Go, Olive, I can bear no more. 
Tell me thou wilt wed as I command 
you. 

Olive. As thou wilt, father ! father ! 
but I will love no man as I love thee. 

Giles. Go, lass. Give me a kiss. There, 
now go ! I command thee to go ! Paul, 
take her hence. I charge ye do by her 
when her father be dead and gone, as ye 
would were he at thy elbow. Take her 
hence. I would go to prayer. 

\_Exeu7it Paul and Olive. 

Olive {as the door closes). Father! fa- 
ther! 

Giles Corey stands alone i?t cell. 
Curtain falls. 



ACT VI. 

Three weeks later. Lane near Salem ove?-- 
hung by blossoining apple-trees. Enter 
Hathorne, Corwin, and Parris. 

Corwin. 'Tis better here, a little re- 
moved from the field where they are 
putting Giles Corey to death. I could 
bear the sight of it no longer. 

Hathorne. You are fainthearted, good 
Master Corwin. 

Corwin. Fainthearted or not, 'tis too 
much for me. I was brought not up in 
the shambles, nor bred butcher by trade. 

Parris. Your worship, you should 
strive in prayer, lest you falter not in 
the strife against Satan. 

Corwi7i. I know not that I have fal- 
tered in any strife against Satan. 

Parris. Perchance 'tis but your wor- 
ship's delicate frame of body causeth 
you to shrink from this stern duty. 

Hathorne. This torment of Giles Co- 
rey's can last but a little space now. He 
hath still his chance to speak and avert 



his death, and he will do it erelong. 
They have increased the weights might- 
ily. Fear not, good Master Corwin, Giles 
Corey will not die ; erelong his old 
tongue will wag like a millwheel. 

Corwin. I doubt much, good Master 
Hathorne, if Giles Corey speak. And if 
he does not speak, and so be put to death, 
as is decreed, I doubt much if the temper 
of the people will stand more. There 
are those who have sympathy with Giles 
Corey. I heard many murmurs in the 
streets of Salem this morning. 

Hathorjie. Let them murmur. 

P arris. Ay, let them murmur, so long 
as we wield the sword of the Lord and 
of Gideon. 

Enter first Messenger. 

Hathorne. Here comes a man from the 
field. How goes it now with Giles Corey } 

Messenger. Your worship, Giles Co- 
rey has not spoken. 

P arris. And he hath been under the 
weights since early light. Truly such 
obstinacy is marvellous. 

[Exit Messenger. 



Hathorne. Satan gives a strength be- 
yond human measure to his disciples. 

Enter Olive a7id Paul Bay ley, appearing 
in the distance. Olive wears a white 
gown and white bonnet. 

Hathorne. Who is that maid coming 
in a bride bonnet? 

Corwin. 'Tis Corey's daughter. I mar- 
vel that Paul lets her come hither. 'Tis 
no place for her, so near. Master Ha- 
thorne, let us withdraw a little way. I 
would not see her distress. I am some- 
what shaken in nerve this morning. 

[Corwin, Hathorne, ajid Parris ex- 
eunt at other end of lane. 

Olive {as she and Paul adva?ice). Who 
were those men, Paul ? 

Paul. The magistrates and Minister 
Parris, sweet. 

Olive. Are they gone } 

Paul. Yes, they are quite out of sight. 
Oh, why wouldst thou come here, dear 
heart } 

Olive. Thou thinkest to cheat me, 
Paul ; but thou canst not cheat me. 
Three fields away to the right have they 



dragged my father this morning. 1 
knew it, I knew it, although you strove 
so hard to keep it from me. I'll be as 
near my father's death-bed on my wed- 
ding-day as I can. 

Paid. I pray thee, sweetheart, come 
away with me. This will do no good. 

Olive. Loyalty doth good to the heart 
that holds it, if to no other. Think you 
I'll forsake my father because 'tis my 
wedding-day, Paul ? Oh, I trow not, I 
trow not, or I'd make thee no true 
wife. 

Paid. It but puts thee to needless tor- 
ment. 

Olive. Torment ! torment ! Think of 
what he this moment bears ! Oh, my 
father, my father! Paul Bayley, why 
have I wedded you this dreadful day ! 

Paid. Hush ! Thy father wished it, 
sweetheart. 

Olive. I swear to you I'll never love 

any other than my father. I love you 

not. 

Paid. Thou needst not, poor lass ! 

Olive {clinging to him). Nay, I love 

thee, but I hate myself for it on this day. 



Paul {caressing her~). Poor lass ! Poor 
lass ! 

Olive. Why wear I this bridal gear, 
and my father over yonder on his dread- 
ful death-bed ? Why could you not have 
gone your own way and let me gone 
mine all the rest of my life in black ap- 
parel, a-mourning for my father? That 
would have beseemed me. This needed 
not have been so ; it needed never have 
been so. 

Paul. Never? I tell thee, sweet, as 
well say to these apple blossoms that 
they need never be apples, and to that 
rose-bush against the wall that its buds 
need not be roses. In faith, we be far 
set in that course of nature, dear, with 
the apple blossoms and the rose-buds, 
where the beginning cannot be without 
the end. Our own motion be lost, and 
we be swept along with a current that is 
mightier than death, whether we would 
have it so or not. 

Olive. I know not. I only know I 
would be faithful to my poor father. 
But 'twas his last wish that I should 
wed thee thus. 



I05 



Paid. Yes, dear. 

Olive. He said so that morning be- 
fore his trial. Oh, Paul, I can see it 
now, the trial ! I have been to the trial 
every day since. Shall I go every day 
of my life.'* Perchance thou may often 
come home and find thy wife gone to 
the trial, and no supper. I will go on 
my wedding-day ; my father shall have 
no slights put upon him. I can see him 
stand there, mute. They cry out upon 
him and mock him and lay false charges 
upon him, and he stands mute. The 
judge declares the dreadful penalty, and 
he stands mute. Oh, my father, my 
poor father ! I tell ye my father will 
not mind anything. The Governor and 
the justices may command him as they 
will, the afflicted may clamor and gibe 
as they will, and I may pray to him, but he 
will not mind, he will stand mute. I tell 
ye there be not power enough in the col- 
ony to make him speak. Ye know not 
my father. He will have the best of it. 

Paid. Thou speakest like his daughter 
now. Keep thyself up to this, sweet. 
The dauofhter of a hero should have 



[o6 



some brave stuff in her. Thy father 
does a greater deed than thou knowest. 
His dumbness will save the colonies 
from more than thou dreamest of. 'Twill 
put an end to this dreadful madness ; he 
himself hath foretold it. 

[A clajnor is heai'd. 

Olive. Paul, Paul, what is that ? 

Paul. Naught but some boys shout- 
ing, sweet. 

Olive. 'Twas not. Oh, my father, my 
father ! 

Paid. Olive, thou must not stay here. 

Olive. I must stay. Who is coming.? 
[Paul and Olive step aside. 

Enter second Messenger. Hathorne, 
Corwin, and Parris advance to meet 
him. 

Hathorne. How goes it now with Giles 
Corey ? 

Messenger. Your worship, Giles Co- 
rey hath not spoken. 

Hathorne. What ! Have they not in- 
creased the weights ? 

Messenger. They have doubled the 
weights, your worship. 



I07 



Parris. I trow Satan himself hath put 
his shoulder under the stones to take off 
the strain. \^Exit Messenger. 

Hat home. 'Tis a marvel the old tav- 
ern-brawler endures so long, but he'll 
soon speak now. 

Corwi'n. Hush, good master, his daugh- 
ter can hear. 

Hathonie. Let her then withdraw if 
it please her not. I'll warrant he can- 
not bear much more; he will soon 
speak. 

Parris. Yea, he cannot withstand the 
double weight unless his master help 
him. 

[Corwin speaks aside to Paul and 
motio7is him to take Olive away. 
Paul takes her by the arm. She 
shakes her head and will not go. 
Hat home. I trow 'twill take other 
than an unlettered clown like Giles Co- 
rey to stand firm under this stress. 
He'll speak soon. 

Parris. Yea, that he will. He can 
never hold out. He hath not the mind 
for it. 
Hathorne. It takes a man of finer wit 



than he to undergo it. He will speak. 
Oh yes, fear ye not, he will speak. 

Olive {breaking away from Paul). My 
father will not speak ! 

Hat home. Girl ! 

Olive. My father will not speak. I tell 
ye there be not stones enough in the 
provinces to make him speak. Ye know 
not my father. My father will have the 
best of ye all. 

Enter third Messenger, running. 

Hathorne. How goes it now with Giles 
Corey ? 

Messenger. Giles Corey is dead, and he 
has not spoken. 

Olive c tings to Paul as curtain falls. 



THE END. 



/^ 



